MRS.  M.  C.   KOLLIN        = 

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THE  MARBECK  INN 


THE  MARBECK  INN 


A   NOVEL 


BY 

HAROLD  BRIGHOUSE 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1920 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  HAROLD  BHIGHOTJSB. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  February,  1920 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  STARTING-POIHT 1 

II    WHERE  THE  SHOE  PINCHED 11 

III  THE  HELL-FIRE  CLUB 23 

IV  THE  COMPLEAT  ANGLER 33 

V    LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS 44 

VI     THE  NEST-EGO 56 

VII    THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST 68 

VIII    ADA  STRUGGLES 81 

IX    ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAR 91 

X    GERALD  ADAMS,  SOCIOLOGIST 103 

XI    UNDER  WAY 114 

XII    DROPPING  THE  PILOT 127 

XIII  THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP 136 

XIV  HONEYMOONERS 151 

XV    OTHER  THINGS  BESIDE  MARRIAGE 163 

XVI     THE  POLITICAL  ANIMAL 175 

XVII     THE  VERITY  AFFAIR 186 

XVIII    WHEN  EFFIE  CAME 198 

XIX    EFFIE  IN  LOVE 211 

XX    THE  MARBECK  INN 225 

XXI    SATAN'S    SMILE 238 

XXII     THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER 250 

XXIII  THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 262 

XXIV  THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS 274 

XXV    WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED .  285 

XXVI    SNOW  ON  THE  FELLS 301 


2134324 


THE  MARBECK  INN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  STARTING-POINT 

IT  falls  to  some  to  be  born,  as  they  say,  with  a  silver 
spoon  in  their  mouths,  and  the  witty  have  made 
play  with  the  thought  that  the  wise  child  chooses 
rich  parents. 

Sam  Branstone  lacked  the  completeness  of  that 
wisdom.  He  was  born  in  one  of  those  disconsolate 
streets  of  Manchester  down  which  the  stranger, 
passing  by  tram  along  a  main  road,  hardly  more 
delectable  than  its  offshoots,  looks  and  shudders; 
but  was  born  with  this  difference  from  the  many  — 
that  he  was  son  to  Anne  Branstone,  a  notable 
woman,  and  wisdom  may  be  conceded  him  for  the 
discrimination  of  his  choice. 

If,  however,  it  was  Anne  who  gave  him  birth  and 
started  him  in  life,  it  was  Mr.  Councillor  Travers 
who  set  him  on  his  way  from  the  mean  street  of  his 
birth  and  started  his  career,  and  the  circumstance 
which  led  to  the  intervention  of  Mr.  Travers  was 
due,  not  to  Anne,  but  to  the  occupation  of  Tom 
Branstone. 

Sam's  father,  Tom,  was  a  porter  at  Victoria  Sta- 
tion, Manchester,  and  there  was  just  time  between 
morning  and  afternoon  school  for  young  Sam  to 


2  THE  MARBECK  INN 

snatch  a  meal  himself  and  to  carry  his  father's 
dinner  to  him  in  a  basin  tied  up  in  a  bandanna 
handkerchief.  In  those  days  Victoria  was  an  open 
station  and  a  favourite  dinner-hour  lounge  with 
boys  from  the  neighbouring  Grammar  School.  The 
attractions  were  partly  the  trains,  partly  the  large 
automatic  machines  which  delivered  a  packet  of 
sweet  biscuits  in  return  for  a  penny.  First  one 
lunched  frugally  on  the  biscuits  and  pocketed  the 
balance  of  one's  lunch  allowance  to  buy  knives  and 
other  essentials,  then  one  savoured  the  romance 
of  a  large  station  from  which  trains  went  to  Black- 
pool and  to  the  Yorkshire  moors.  Often  one  saw 
sailors  on  the  through  trains  from  Liverpool  to 
Newcastle.  One  found  secluded  ends  of  platforms 
and  ran  races  with  luggage  trucks.  One  was 
rather  a  nuisance,  especially  when  one  wrestled 
hardily  at  the  platform's  giddy  edge  and  a  train 
came  in. 

Sam,  as  a  porter's  son,  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fence.  He  did  not  lark  at  Victoria  Station, 
and  took  his  opinions  of  those  who  did  from  his  fa- 
ther, adding,  perhaps,  a  touch  of  jealousy  against 
these  chartered  libertines  who  wore  the  silver  owl 
upon  their  caps  of  dual  blue. 

That  day  he  had  delivered  Tom's  dinner  to  him  in 
the  porters'  room  and  was  retracing  his  steps  down 
the  platform  when  he  saw  two  of  the  Grammar 
School  boys  emerge  in  a  confused  whirl  of  battle 
and  sag,  interlocked,  towards  the  line,  hopelessly 
unconscious  in  their  struggle  of  an  incoming  train. 
They  reached  the  edge,  deaf  to  all  warning  cries, 
and  long  before  help  could  reach  them,  fell  over  it 
in  one  entangled  mass.  One  boy,  aroused  to  a  sense 


THE  STARTING-POINT  3 

of  their  common  danger,  was  on  his  feet  nimbly 
enough  and  across  the  line  to  safety :  the  other, 
Lance  Travers,  stayed  where  he  fell,  with  a  leg 
broken  against  the  rail.  Wits  left  the  first  lad; 
he  could  only  howl  as  the  engine  swept  inexorably 
on,  and  adult  help,  though  active,  could  not  avail  in 
time.  Sam  had  no  precise  recollection  of  what  fol- 
lowed, and  certainly  acted  on  impulse.  He  dived 
to  the  line  and  dragged  the  injured  boy  across, 
escaping  death  for  both  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth. 

After  that,  all  was  confusion:  an  ambulance; 
inquiries;  names  taken  and  so  on;  and  Sam  only 
came  to  himself  when  he  discovered  that  he  was 
being  punished  for  arriving  late  at  school.  It 
struck  him  as  unfair,  but  he  did  not  realize  that 
he  was  a  hero  till  the  evening  paper  told  him  so. 
He,  Samuel  Branstone,  had  his  name  in  the  paper ! 
Glory  could  go  no  further,  because  those  were  the 
dark  ages  of  journalism,  before  the  photograph  il- 
lustrated all,  and  to  read  one's  name  in  print  was 
then  the  apogee.  We  have  moved  since  those  dull 
days,  when  "  heart  interest "  was  still  to  be  in- 
vented. 

What  profound  satisfaction  Anne  Branstone 
found  in  that  sober  paragraph  her  son  was  not  to 
know.  She  did  not  think  it  good  for  him  to  know, 
but  she  went  about  her  house  with  softened  eyes, 
and  Sam  heard  her  singing  more  than  once ;  so  per- 
haps he  may  have  guessed  that  she  was  pleased  with 
him. 

It  was  more  than  she  allowed  Mr.  Oscar  Travers 
to  guess.  He  was  Lance's  father,  an  estate  agent 
with  a  good  suburban  practice,  and  Anne  met  him 
at  the  door  in  a  way  which  would  have  marred 


4  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Sam's  future  had  Travers  not  known  that  Lanca- 
shire women  are  apt  to  be  undemonstrative.  She 
found  a  portly  gentleman  on  the  doorstep  and 
thought  he  wore  a  patronizing  air.  They  resent 
patronage  in  Lancashire. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Travers  had  come  to  see  what 
he  could  do  for  the  lad  who  had  saved  his  boy's 
life.  That  may  be  patronage,  but  he  was  thinking 
of  it  as  the  barest  decency. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  said ;  "  my  name  is  Travers." 

"  This  is  a  nice  upset,"  she  said,  without  inviting 
him  to  come  in.  "How's  your  son?" 

"  He's  doing  very  well,  thank  you." 

"Oh?    Well,  it's  more  than  he  deserves." 

He  did  not  argue  that.  "  I  wonder,"  he  said, 
"  if  you  would  allow  me  to  come  in,  or  would  you 
prefer  me  to  return  when  your  husband  is  at 
home?  " 

"  He's  at  home  now.  It's  his  early  night.  He's 
having  his  tea." 

"  Shall  I  return  when  he  has  finished?  "  asked 
Travers  with  a  nice  tactfulness.  He  knew  the 
curious  delicacy  against  being  seen  eating  by  one 
of  a  superior  class,  as  if  that  natural  function  were 
a  deed  of  shame.  But  Anne  was  for  short  cuts  and 
she  never  considered  Tom's  feelings  overmuch. 

"  If  you've  owt  to  say,"  she  said,  "  you'd  better 
come  in  and  get  it  over." 

"  I  have  something  to  say,"  said  Travers,  enter- 
ing. "Ah,"  he  added,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Sam, 
"this  is ?" 

"  It's  him,"  Anne  interrupted.  She  might  have 
been  identifying  a  criminal. 

"  May  I  shake  your  hand?  "  he  asked,  and  shook 


THE  STARTING-POINT  5 

it  heartily,  ignoring  Anne's  muttered  protest  that 
the  hand  had  not  been  washed  for  hours.  "  I  think 
you're  a  very  plucky  lad."  He  could  have  said 
more  than  that,  and  felt  that  as  an  expression  of 
his  gratitude  it  was  hopelessly  inadequate,  but 
Anne's  eyes  forbade  effusiveness,  and  he  wanted  to 
propitiate  Anne.  He  had  something  to  propose 
which  he  had  thought  they  would  agree  to  raptur- 
ously, but  was  not  so  sure  about  the  rapture  now. 
For  some  reason,  he  had  imagined  that  Sam  would 
be  one  of  a  large  family  and  was  disappointed  to 
find  no  evidence  of  other  children  about  the  room. 
A  large  family  would  have  made  his  proposal  more 
certain  of  acceptance. 

"  Any  brothers  and  sisters,  Sam  ? "  he  asked ; 
but  Sam  was  tongue-tied,  while  Anne  was  silently 
but  unmistakably  asking  Travers  what  business  of 
his  that  was.  However,  Tom  knew  his  place. 
Travers  belonged  with  the  tipping  public,  whose 
questions  one  answered. 

"  He  has  an  elder  sister,  sir.  Our  Madge.  She 
works  out."  She  was,  in  fact,  a  general  servant. 

Travers  felt  his  confidence  ebb  fast,  both  at  this 
information  and  at  Anne's  austere  disapprobation 
of  Tom's  communicativeness.  He  felt  it  was  sug- 
gested to  him  that  his  visit  was  irrelevant,  that 
Anne,  this  small  woman,  not  uncomely,  with  her 
hands  on  her  hips,  and  her  black  hair  tightly 
combed  into  a  ridiculous  knob  at  the  back,  was,  in 
fact,  a  rock,  and  that  the  impulses  and  desires  of 
the  two  hulking  men,  Travers  and  Tom  Branstone, 
would  break  in  ineffectual  foam  against  her  ad- 
amantine resolution. 

She  glared  formidably,  hating  a  "  fuss,"  judging 


6  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Travers,  who  had  invaded  her  home  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a  fuss. 

"  Indeed,"  said  Travers,  marking  time  and  hardly 
attempting  to  conceal  his  dismay.  The  longer  he 
spent  in  Anne's  presence,  the  more  uneasy  he  be- 
came. She  seemed  to  divine  his  purpose,  and  to  be 
telling  him  silently  what  she  thought  of  him  for 
having  such  a  purpose.  He  had,  indeed,  banked 
on  a  large  family ;  porters,  he  had  felt  certain,  were 
prolific,  and  you  may  subtract  one  child  from  a 
family  of  ten  without  much  heart-burning,  whereas 
an  only  son  is  a  serious  matter.  But  time  brought 
no  graciousness  to  Anne's  attitude.  She  even 
ignored  the  sacred  rites  of  hospitality;  though  tea 
was  on  the  table,  she  had  not  asked  him  to  have  a 
cup.  So  he  gave  up  temporizing  and  decided  to 
broach  his  purpose  at  once,  before  Anne  reduced 
him  to  complete  incoherence. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  you  know  me  already  as 
Lance's  father.  I  don't  know  whether  you  happen 
to  have  heard  of  me  beyond  that? "  Anne  ad- 
mitted nothing,  and  as  it  was  to  her  he  spoke,  it 
did  not  matter  that  Tom,  who  had  naturally  spent 
a  gossipy  afternoon,  was  trying  to  signify  that  he 
realized  the  importance  of  Travers.  "  I'm  an  es- 
tate agent,  if  you  understand  what  that  means." 

Anne  nodded  grimly.  "  Kent-collector  said 
big,"  she  defined. 

"  Well,"  said  Travers,  intending  to  suggest  an 
amended  definition  and  then  thinking  better  of  it. 
"Well,  yes.  I'm  in  the  Council,  too,  you  know. 
Well,  now,  Mrs.  Branstone,  I  happen  to  be  a 
widower  and  Lance  is  my  only  son.  He  means  a 
great  deal  to  me,  and  when  I  think  how  near  I  came 


THE  STARTING-POINT  7 

to  losing  him  this  afternoon,  how  certainly  I  had 
lost  him  but  for  the  splendid  presence  of  mind  of 
this  young  hero  here,  I  feel  I  owe  a  debt  which  I 
can  never  hope  to  pay." 

"  Mr.  Travers,"  said  Anne,  "  least  said  is  soonest 
mended,  and  debts  that  you  can  never  hope  to  pay 
are  best  forgotten.  It's  a  kindly  thought  of  yours 
to  come  and  look  us  up  to-night,  but  I'm  not  in 
the  Council,  and  I'm  no  great  hand  at  listening  to 
long  speeches.  By  your  leave,  we'll  take  the  rest 
as  said." 

"  By  all  means,  Mrs.  Branstone,  so  far  as  ex- 
pressing my  thanks  goes.  But  I  have  a  suggestion 
to  make.  Lance,  as  I  said,  is  my  only  son.  He's 
a  lonely  boy,  and  he'd  be  the  better  for  a  companion 
of  his  own  age  about  the  house.  I  was  wondering  if 
you  would  allow  Sam  to  come  and  live  with  us? 
I  should  send  him  with  Lance  to  the  Grammar 
School,  and  I  think  I  can  promise  that  his  future 
will  be  secured." 

Sam's  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  He,  Sam  Bran- 
stone,  a  Grammar  School  boy,  one  of  the  elect,  the 
Olympians  whose  play  he  had  envied  from  afar! 
He  looked  at  Anne  with  glittering  eyes,  faint  with 
hope. 

"  Sam,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Travers  wants  you  to 
leave  us.  He's  offering  to  adopt  you  as  his  son. 
Tell  him  the  answer." 

Anne  never  doubted  that  she  was  mistress  of  her 
house,  and  perhaps  she  did  not  doubt  it  now,  but, 
for  Sam,  a  child  with  the  dreadful  sensibility  of  a 
child,  this  moment  when  she  demanded  calmly,  im- 
placably, in  the  interests  of  discipline,  that  he 
should  himself  pronounce  sentence  on  his  soaring 


8  THE  MARBECK  INN 

« 

hopes  was  of  a  pitiable  bitterness  which  brought 
him  near  the  breaking-point.  At  one  moment,  to 
be  raised  to  the  heavens  of  ecstasy,  and  at  the  next 
to  be  cast  down  to  the  blackest  hell  of  despondency ; 
to  be  promised  all,  and  to  be  expected  to  refuse! 
He  was  not  more  callous  than  any  other  child,  and 
Anne  knew  perfectly  well  that  a  Land  of  Heart's 
Desire  had  been  opened  to  him.  It  was  not  fair, 
and  she  knew  that  it  was  not  fair,  to  ask  him  to 
speak  the  word  of  refusal ;  but  she  thought  that  it 
was  good  for  him,  and  once  she  had,  by  her  tone,  if 
not  by  her  actual  words,  indicated  the  reply  which 
she  required,  she  knew  that  he  would  suppress  his 
leaping  hopes  and  answer,  in  effect,  that  home,  be 
it  ever  so  humble,  was  home,  and  parents,  whatever 
their  status,  were  parents.  He  had  a  wild  impulse 
to  defy  her,  to  tell  her  that  he  would  come  to  see 
her  on  Saturday  afternoons,  that  to  wear  the  cap 
with  the  silver  owl  was  the  dearest  ambition  of  his 
life,  but  he  knew  that  it  was  hopeless.  Even  at 
such  a  moment  as  this,  and  with  such  an  ally  as 
Mr.  Travers,  he  dared  not  challenge  Anne.  Her 
ascendancy  was  what  it  had  always  been,  absolute. 
He  shuffled  unhappily  and  tried  to  meet  Mr. 
Travers'  eye  bravely,  but  succeeded  only  in  look- 
ing up  as  far  as  the  second  button  of  his  waist- 
coat. 

"No,"  said  Sam  Branstone,  hero,  and  fled,  a 
heartbroken,  tear-washed  child,  to  hide  his  face  and 
choke  his  sobs  upon  his  pillow.  And  he  was  named 
for  valour  in  the  evening  paper ! 

"  No,"  repeated  Anne,  when  he  had  gone,  and 
added,  anticipating  argument,  "  I'm  a  woman  of 
few  words." 


THE  STARTING-POINT  9 

Travers  knew  he  was  fighting  a  losing  engage- 
ment, but  he  had  a  shot  in  the  locker  yet,  and  a 
hardy  determination  not  to  be  worsted  by  the  likes 
of  Anne  Branstone.  His  pride  was  up,  a  pride 
which,  over  and  above  his  benevolence  and  his  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things,  would  not  allow  him  to  re- 
gard the  saving  of  his  son's  life  lightly.  Travers 
counted,  the  saviour  of  the  son  of  Travers  counted. 
He  had  offered  to  lift  Sam  Branstone  in  one  way, 
and  if  they  would  not  let  him  do  it  in  that  way,  he 
would  do  it  in  another.  Sam  Branstone,  willy 
nilly,  was  going  to  be  lifted. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  covering  the  retreat  from 
his  first  position,  "  that  it  is  of  no  use  pointing  out 
to  you  the  advantages  which  my  proposal  offers  to 
your  son?"  She  shook  her  head.  "Come,  Mrs. 
Branstone,"  he  went  on,  conscious  that  it  was  no 
use  and  platitudinous  at  that,  "  we  all  have  to  make 
sacrifices  for  our  children." 

"  I  make  them,"  said  Anne  curtly.     It  was  true. 

"  Yet  you  will  not  make  this?  " 

She  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment,  and  Travers 
began  to  hope  that  he  was  making  an  impression. 
"  I'm  sure  that  it's  Genesis  twenty-two,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  disremember  the  verse." 

"  Genesis,"  he  repeated,  mystified. 

"Abraham  and  Isaac,"  she  explained  her  allu- 
sion. "  Some  sacrifices  aren't  looked  for  from  us, 
and  the  Lord  sent  an  angel  to  say  so  in  those  days, 
but  I've  to  be  my  own  angel  in  these." 

"  But  Abraham,"  he  said,  "  was  going  to  sacrifice 
his  son  to  the  Lord." 

"And  I  won't,"  she  said,  conveying  her  opinion 
of  Travers,  who  had  tried  to  "  come  God  Almighty 


10  THE  MARBECK  INN 

over  her,"  as  she  expressed  it  later  to  Tom.  But 
Travers  was  not  to  be  rebuffed.  He  had  come  to 
play  Providence  to  Sam  (and  so  far  granted  that 
her  allusion  was  apposite),  but  his  providence 
could  compromise.  He  wasn't  an  absolute  Jeho- 
vah. 

"  If  Sam  may  not  be  Lance's  home  companion," 
he  said,  "  at  least  let  them  be  school  companions. 
Let  me  pay  his  fees  at  the  Grammar  School, 

and "  He  was  going  to  add  "  for  appropriate 

clothes,"  but  something  in  Anne's  attitude  told  him 
that  he  had  gone  far  enough,  and  he  stopped  short 
with  the  completion  of  his  sentence  in  mid  air. 

Anne  believed  in  education.  She  wasn't  con- 
vinced that  a  Grammar  School  education  wras 
superior,  as  education,  to  a  Parish  School,  but  its 
associations  were.  It  gave  a  chance  of  "  getting 
on  "  which  transcended  anything  the  Parish  School 
could  offer.  It  was  a  start  in  life  which  set  one 
automatically  above  the  lower  rungs  of  the  ladder. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  but  said  it  with  a  difficulty 
which  Travers  noted  and,  indeed,  applauded.  He 
was  Lancastrian  himself,  and  honoured  her  for  her 
independence.  He  knew  the  mother-pride,  the 
fierce  individualism  which  she  had  subdued  before 
she  had  consented  to  take  a  favour  even  for  her 
son  who  earned  it,  and  wasted  no  more  words. 
"  I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "  Good  night,"  and,  shaking 
hands,  was  gone. 

"  Finish  your  tea,  Tom,"  she  said  to  her  husband 
who  had  suspended  operations  during  the  interview. 
"  I  want  to  clear  away."  She  stood  a  moment  pen- 
sively. "  I'm  a  weak  wroman,"  she  decided. 

Tom  Branstone  ate  his  tea,  reserving  judgment. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHERE  THE   SHOE  PINCHED 

WHEN  Anne  Branstone  set  her  hand  to  the  plough 
she  ploughed  deep,  and  it  was  not  her  fault  if  the 
harvest  was  not  immense.  But  she  did  not  mis- 
direct her  energy;  she  made  certain  that  the  seed 
was  good  seed  before  she  harnessed  her  plough. 

To  drop  metaphor,  she  let  young  Sam  prove  that 
he  was  worth  troubling  over  before  she  took  trouble 
—  trouble,  that  is,  as  Anne  understood  the  word. 
Of  course,  she  sent  him  "  decent "  to  the  Grammar 
School,  and  if  that  meant  that  she  and  Madge  went 
without  new  spring  hats  that  year,  well,  last  year's 
hats  must  do.  It  was  no  great  matter,  and  the 
greater  pride  swallowed  up  the  less.  Mr.  Travers 
paid  the  fees,  so  that  her  son  could  associate  with 
his,  and  Anne  saw  to  it  thoroughly  that,  in  ex- 
ternals, Sam  should  be  worthy  to  associate  with 
Lance. 

That  was  the  beginning,  and  Sam,  so  far,  was  un- 
tried metal.  Then,  at  the  end  of  his  first  term,  he 
came  out  top  of  his  form  at  the  July  examinations, 
and,  after  that,  Anne  began  to  take  things  seriously. 

It  was  not  pure  ability  which  brought  Sam  to 
that  proud  eminence  so  much  as  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  put  in  a  form  whose  standard  was  really  too 
low  for  him,  and  he  had  not  worked  over  hard  at 
lessons,  being  naturally  preoccupied,  in  a  first 
term,  with  finding  his  feet.  Nor  had  that  been  too 


12  THE  MARBECK  INN 

difficult.  The  Manchester  Grammar  School  was  a 
democratic  institution.  Schoolboys,  anyhow,  are 
not  all  snobs,  and,  in  this  instance,  the  presence 
amongst  the  paying  boys  of  a  leaven  of  Foundation 
Scholars,  often  from  homes  as  poor  as  Sam's,  made 
acclimatization  easy  for  him. 

But  his  feat  impressed  Anne,  though  all  she  said, 
when  the  lists  came  out  with  the  name  of  "  Bran- 
stone,  S."  at  the  head  of  II.  Alpha,  was,  "  Of 
course ! "  as  if  any  other  place  were  impossible  for 
a  son  of  hers;  and  it  decided  her  that  Sam  would 
"  pay  for  "  taking  trouble.  She  proceeded  to  take 
trouble. 

Tom  Branstone's  first  real  inkling  of  what  was 
passing  in  Anne's  mind  came  to  that  good,  easy 
man  when  he  mentioned  that  his  holidays  were  due 
in  a  fortnight. 

"  You'll  take  a  holiday  at  home  this  year,  my 
lad,"  she  informed  him. 

"But  why's  that,  Anne?"  he  asked.  "Black- 
pool's in  the  same  place  as  it  was,  and  I  get  privilege 
passes  on  the  line." 

"  Sam's  not  in  the  same  place,  though,"  she  said. 
"  He's  at  the  Grammar  School.  It's  a  place  where 
other  boys  wear  decent  clothes,  and  I'll  see  that 
Sam  shan't  fall  behind  them." 

Tom  took  a  holiday  at  home,  varied  with  trips  on 
the  foot-plates  of  friendly  engine-drivers,  and  forti- 
fied his  soul  with  the  consolations  of  tobacco. 
They  were  consolations  which  were  not  to  be  vouch- 
safed to  him  much  longer.  Tobacco  cost  money, 
and  Anne  had  need  of  it. 

In  spite  of  Travers'  generosity  —  or  of  as  much 
of  it  as  she  could  bring  herself  to  accept  —  it  was 


WHERE  THE  SHOE  PINCHED  13 

not  an  easy  thing  for  Anne  to  keep  her  son  at  the 
Grammar  School.  It  was  desperately  difficult,  but 
Anne  was  Anne.  The  boy  had  his  foot  on  the  ed- 
ucational ladder,  and  she  meant  him  to  go  to  the 
top,  rung  by  rung  and  scholarship  by  scholarship. 
When  Sam  took  his  honours  degree  at  Oxford, 
Anne  would  relax;  till  then,  she  was  a  crusader. 
She  sacrificed  all  to  that  ambition.  Sam  should 
have  his  chance,  at  no  matter  what  cost  to, her,  to 
Tom  and  to  Madge.  The  boy  must  be  as  well 
dressed  as  his  fellows,  and  he  must  play  their  games. 
Games  are  an  essential  part  of  English  education, 
and  Anne,  with  her  constant  eye  to  the  main  chance, 
recognized  the  importance  of  the  playing-fields  in 
cementing  friendships  with  boys  who  might  be  use- 
ful to  Sam  in  after-life.  But  games  are  expensive, 
and  Tom  gave  up  smoking  when  Sam  was  put  into 
his  class  eleven.  Anne  gave  up  nothing.  She  had 
nothing  more  to  give. 

Honestly,  Sam  was  grateful.  Anne  did  not  boast 
to  him  of  the  sacrifices  which  they  all  made,  but 
with  the  candour  which  distinguishes  working-class 
homes  where  anything  but  bare  necessity  is  ex- 
ceptional, he  was  aware  of  every  move,  of  all  their 
deprivation,  and  did  his  best  to  square  accounts. 
But  it  was  not  a  brilliant  best,  and  after  that  first 
term,  Anne  never  repeated  the  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing her  son  carry  away  a  form  prize  on  Speech  Day 
at  the  Free  Trade  Hall.  He  was  a  worker,  a  safe 
plodding  "  swot,"  taking  by  sheer  application  a 
respectable  place  in  the  lists,  but  never  heading 
them  again,  and  especially  he  was  weak  at  mathe- 
matics. 

That  troubled  Anne  distressingly.     Mathematics 


14  THE  MARBECK  INN 

appeared  to  her  the  corner-stone  of  education, 
though  in  truth  they  mattered  little  to  Sam,  who 
had  followed  Lance  to  the  Classical  side  of  the 
school,  where  mathematics  were  an  unconsidered 
trifle.  But  Anne  recked  nothing  of  that.  She  had 
found  the  heel  of  her  Achilles,  and  set  herself  to 
make  that  vulnerable  place  secure.  You  are  to  pic- 
ture Anne,  with  her  forty  years  of  a  working 
woman's  life  behind  her,  wrestling  with  algebra 
and  trigonometry,  blazing  a  trail  for  Sam  to  fol- 
low. It  was  heroic  and,  by  some  mental  freak,  suc- 
cessful. She  taught  herself,  then  tutored  him,  and 
it  was  not  Sam  who  scraped  through  to  an  average 
place  in  the  mathematics  examinations,  but  Anne 
in  Sam.  Day  after  day,  in  the  intervals  of  cook- 
ing, cleaning,  washing,  she  studied  the  text-books 
which  so  puzzled  him,  and  at  night  explained  their 
knotty  points  to  him  with  a  wonderful  clarity. 
She  had  no  education  in  particular,  nothing  but  a 
general  capacity  and  a  monstrous  will  —  a  will 
that  surmounted  the  obstacle  of  acquiring  knowl- 
edge at  an  age  when  few  can  learn,  and  the  greater 
obstacle  of  patient  teaching  to  a  boy  who  had  a 
blind  spot  for  mathematics.  She  illumined  his 
darkness,  but  perhaps  she  hampered  his  classics 
and  made  her  hopes  of  Oxford  visionary. 

Slowly  and  painfully,  as  the  terms  went  by,  with 
Branstone,  S.  rising  steadily  in  the  school,  but  keep- 
ing regularly  to  his  mediocre  place  in  class,  Anne 
acknowledged  to  herself  that  her  goose  was  not  a 
swan.  It  made  her  the  more  eager  to  cultivate 
what  she  called  the  social  side;  and  through  that 
she  met  with  a  defeat. 

From  the  beginning,  Sam's  rise  in  the  world  had 


15 

borne  heavily  on  Madge,  his  sister,  who  was  of  an 
age  for  gaiety  and  of  a  mind  untouched  by  ambi- 
tion, personal  or  vicarious.  When  Sam  went  to 
the  Grammar  School,  Madge  was  in  service  and 
very  content.  Anne  had  her  out  of  that  at  once; 
she  wasn't  going  to  run  the  risk  of  Madge  being 
the  servant  in  the  house  of  one  of  Sam's  school  com- 
panions. It  was  unusual,  but  Madge  preferred 
service,  where  she  was  lucky  in  her  employers,  to 
the  weaving-shed,  where  she  had  free  evenings,  but 
strenuous  days  with  no  gossiping  callers  at  the  back 
door  to  break  their  monotony.  And  it  became  a 
considerable  question  in  Madge's  mind  whether  she 
would  now  be  able  to  outface  Anne  in  the  matter 
of  George  Chappie.  Anne  required  a  presentable 
brother-in-law  for  Sam. 

Like  Madge,  George  was  unambitious,  except  that 
he  wanted  her,  which  was  ambition  of  a  kind. 
Madge  was  small,  like  her  mother,  but  derived  in 
most  else  from  her  father.  She  had  freckles  and 
carroty  hair,  and  the  makings  of  a  querulous  shrew, 
but  George  saw  otherwise,  and  desired  Madge  to 
have  and  to  hold,  for  better  for  worse,  and  didn't 
perceive  that  the  odds  were  heavily  against  its  be- 
ing better.  He  was  a  wisp  of  a  man  himself,  and 
thought  he  was  enterprising  because  he  was  a  win- 
dow-cleaner; window-cleaning  was  a  new  trade 
then.  But  Anne  did  not  concur  with  that  opinion, 
and  Madge  was  in  no  very  sanguine  frame  of  mind 
when  George  came  in  one  night  with  an  "  It's  now 
or  never "  look  unmistakably  in  his  eye.  The 
trouble  was  that  Anne  was  not  the  sort  of  mother 
one  defied  with  impunity. 

He  came  in  shyly  enough  —  a  determined  George 


16  THE  MARBECK  INN 

was  a  contradiction  in  terms  —  but  plucked  up 
courage  at  once  when  he  found  that  she  was  alone 
but  for  Sam.  Sam's  presence  was  inevitable,  but 
need  not  be  acknowledged.  In  a  house,  not,  in- 
deed, of  one  room,  but  of  one  fire  and  one  gas-jet, 
Sam  had  grown  apt  at  insulating  himself  when  he 
sat  with  his  books  at  the  table.  The  business  of 
the  house  went  on,  so  did  Sam's  studies,  and  neither 
interfered  with  the  other.  Sam,  absorbed  in  his 
construe  of  Cicero's  De  Senectute  for  the  mor- 
row, was  absolutely  unconscious  of  Madge  and 
George. 

It  was  not  Sam  who  troubled  George,  but  Madge 
had  truth  with  her  when  she  told  her  suitor  that  he 
looked  worried.  George  jerked  his  thumb  vaguely 
streetwards.  "  It's  her  again,"  he  explained.  "  I 
can't  think  why  God  made  landladies.  I  ask  you, 
Madge,  is  another  blanket  in  this  weather  a  thing 
to  fly  into  a  temper  about?  " 

"  It's  cold,"  said  Madge.  "  Won't  she  give  you 
another?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet  whether  she'll  give  me  one  or 
not.  But  she's  had  my  last  word.  Another 
blanket  or  I'll  flit." 

"  You've  threatened  that  so  often." 

He  admitted  it.  "  I  know.  It  takes  an  earth- 
quake to  shift  some  folks,  and  I  reckon  I'm  one  of 
them.  I  stay  where  I'm  set."  And  his  tone  im- 
plied that  conservatism  was  an  admirable  virtue. 

Madge  did  not  think  so.  "  That's  what  my 
mother  says  of  you,"  she  observed,  a  trifle  tartly. 

"  It's  no  lie,  either,"  he  placidly  agreed.  "  Seems 
to  me,"  he  went  on,  with  a  look,  ardent  but  appeal- 
ing, at  Madge,  "  that  there's  only  one  thing  will  flit 


WHERE  THE  SHOE  PINCHED  17 

me  from  Mrs.  Whitehead's.  You  couldn't  give  a 
guess  at  it,  could  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  could,"  said  Madge  brazenly.  After  all, 
she  was  Anne's  daughter,  and  direct.  Then,  de- 
spite herself,  she  fenced  coyly :  "  You're  leaving 
the  town,  I  reckon,  Mr.  Chappie." 

He  stood  aghast  at  the  revolutionary  thought. 
"  Nay,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  I'm  set  here  and  I'll 
not  leave  willing.  There's  something  to  keep  me 
where  I  am." 

"  Your  job's  not  worth  so  much,"  she  said,  mis- 
understanding wilfully. 

"  It's  steady,  though,"  he  defended  it,  "  and  a 
growing  trade.  My  master's  getting  a  lot  of  win- 
dow-cleaning contracts  all  over  the  town.  But  it's 

not  my  job  that  keeps  me  here.  It's "  He 

dropped  his  cap  and  fumbled  for  it  nervously,  some- 
how finding  a  sort  of  courage  in  the  act,  so  that 
when  he  rose  he  faced  her  with  a  spirit  which  was, 
for  him,  quite  debonair.  "  Now,  you'll  not  stop 
me,  will  you?  I've  come  on  purpose  to  get  this  off 
my  chest  and  I've  worked  myself  up  to  a  point. 
I'm  a  bit  slow  at  most  things  and  I'm  easily  put 
off,  so  I'll  ask  you  to  give  my  humble  request  a  pa- 
tient hearing." 

Madge  looked  at  him  acutely,  and  decided  that 
his  resolution  was  strong  enough  to  survive  some- 
thing that  she  very  much  wanted  to  say.  "  I'd 
rather  this  didn't  come  straight  on  top  of  a  row 
with  your  landlady,"  she  said. 

"  Aye,"  he  agreed,  "  I  can  see  your  meaning,  but 
it's  that  that  roused  me  to  point.  Love's  like  a 
pan  of  soup  with  me.  It's  got  to  seethe  a  while 
before  it  boils.  But  I'm  boiling  now,  and  I'm  here 


18  THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  tell  you  so.  I've  loved  you  since  I  saw  you, 
Madge.  After  Sunday  School  one  day  it  was,  with 
a  wind  on  that  blew  the  bonny  curls  across  your 
eyes.  I  always  fancied  gold  and  you're  gold  twice 
over."  Madge  was  deeply  moved  at  this  idealiza- 
tion of  her  hair.  She  had  been  made  more  peev- 
ishly conscious  of  its  redness  than  ever  by  the  un- 
sparing comments  of  the  weaving-shed,  but  she  did 
not  see  wherein  she  was  gold  twice  over  until  he 
explained  it.  "  I  didn't  notice  that  the  first  day. 
I  only  saw  your  hair.  I  hadn't  the  nerve  to  come 
close  enough  to  see  the  colour  of  your  eyes.  But 
when  I  did,  and  found  them  all  gold-brown  as  well, 
that  finished  me.  I  was  deep  in  love  to  the  top  of 
my  head.  Drowned  in  it,  you  might  say." 

"  You're  talking  a  lot  of  nonsense,  George,"  said 
Madge,  with  a  fond  appreciation  that  belied  her 
words. 

"  I'm  telling  you  I  love  you,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm 
asking  if  there's  anything  that  you  could  see  your 
way  to  tell  me  in  return.  I  know  I'm  not  smart, 
Madge,  but  I'd  work  my  fingers  off  to  make  you 
happy.  Can't  you  say  you  love  me,  lass?  Not," 
he  added,  "  if  it  isn't  true,  of  course.  I  wouldn't 
ask  you  to  tell  a  lie  even  to  oblige  me." 

"  It  might  not  be  a  lie,"  said  Madge  softly, 

"  but "  She  paused  so  that  he  was  left  to  guess 

the  rest. 

"  But,"  he  suggested,  "  you  don't  care  to  go  so  far 
as  to  say  it?  " 

He  watched  her  timidly,  with  courage  oozing  out 
of  him.  She  had  all  but  given  him  to  hope,  but  now 
it  appeared  she  had  no  more  to  say.  "  Well,  I  can 
understand,"  he  said,  half  turning  towards  the 


WHERE  THE  SHOE  PINCHED  19 

door.  "  I'm  not  much  of  a  chap,  and  you  might 
easily  have  put  me  down  much  harder  than  you  did. 
It's  soft  letting  now,  by  reason  of  your  tactful 
ways.  I'll  .  .  .  I'll  go  and  see  if  Mrs.  Whitehead 
has  given  me  yon  other  blanket." 

He  was  at  the  door  before  she  stopped  him. 
"  George !  "  she  said,  "  come  back.  You're  getting 
this  all  wrong.  You  know  about  my  brother." 

George  nearly  smiled.  "  It  'ud  not  be  your 
mother's  fault  if  I  didn't,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  I  suppose  everybody  knows 
about  his  going  to  the  Grammar  School.  They 
don't  all  know  what  it  means."  Madge  was  trying 
to  be  loyal  to  the  family  ideal,  she  was  trying  not  to 
be  bitter,  but  it  wasn't  easy.  It  was  one  thing  to 
go  without  new  hats  and  the  accustomed  ways  of 
service,  but  another  to  go  without  George. 

"  I'd  like  you  to  understand  that  this  family  puts 
itself  about  a  bit  for  Sam's  sake.  We  think  he'll  go 
a  long  way  up  in  the  world,  and  the  rest  of  us 
aren't  doing  anything  to  keep  him  down.  None  of 
us,  no  matter  how  it  hurts.  Are  you  seeing  what 
I  mean?  " 

He  saw.  "  I'm  not  class  enough  for  you,"  he 
said. 

It  was  a  part,  but  not  the  whole,  of  her  mean- 
ing, and  Madge  wanted  no  misapprehensions. 
"  You're  class  enough  for  me,"  she  said,  "  but  I'm 
telling  you  where  the  doubt  comes  in.  It's  a  habit 
we've  got  in  this  family.  We  think  of  Sam." 

That  made  the  matter  plain ;  she  loved  him,  and 
while  he  granted  there  was  a  certain  impediment 
through  Anne's  habit  of  subordinating  everything 
to  Sam's  interests,  he  saw  no  just  cause  why  he 


20  THE  MARBECK  INN 

should  not  marry  Madge.  "  I  wouldn't  knowingly 
do  anything  to  upset  your  mother/'  he  said,  "  but 
I've  told  you  I'm  boiling  with  my  love  for  you.  I'm 
easily  put  off  my  purpose  as  a  rule.  I  mean  to  say, 
supposing  I  ask  Mrs.  Whitehead  for  a  kipper  for 
my  tea,  and  she  tells  me  eggs  are  cheap  and  she's 
got  an  egg  instead,  I  don't  make  a  song  about  it  — 
so  long  as  the  egg's  not  extra  stale.  But  I'll  own 
I  didn't  think  of  Sam  in  this.  I  thought  it  was 
for  you  and  me  to  settle  by  ourselves." 

"  Sam's  in  it,"  said  Madge  dully.  "  He's  in 
everything  in  this  house." 

Then  Anne  came  in  and  the  disturbance  of  her 
entrance,  together  with  the  fact  that  he  had  fin- 
ished his  passage  of  "  De  Senectute,"  made  Sam 
aware  that  something  was  toward.  He  kept  his 
eyes  discreetly  on  his  book,  but  fluttered  the  pages 
of  his  dictionary  no  more.  He  found  youth  more 
arresting  than  old  age. 

Anne's  quick  comprehension  took  the  situation 
in  at  once.  She  had  been  shopping,  and  as  she  put 
her  parcels  on  the  dresser  she  gave  Madge  the  bene- 
fit of  a  wordless  reproof.  She  could  say  a  good 
deal  without  opening  her  mouth,  and  said  it.  But 
Madge  was  not  going  to  be  parted  from  her  George 
without  a  fight.  Sam  apart,  George  was  eligible, 
and  Madge  saw  this  as  an  unique  occasion  —  the 
occasion  for  leaving  Sam  out.  At  least,  she  meant 
to  try. 

George  was  turned  craven  at  sight  of  Anne  and 
sidled  to  the  door.  "  I'll  be  getting  on  home,  I 
think,"  he  said. 

"  You  wait  your  hurry,"  said  Madge  hardily. 
"  Mother,  George  has  been  asking  me  to  wed  him." 


WHERE  THE  SHOE  PINCHED  21 

It  was  the  gage  of  battle,  for  Anne  knew  the  fact 
already.  The  statement  of  it  was  a  challenge. 
She  met  it  coolly.  "  Has  he?  "  she  said.  "  Well, 
I  hope  you  told  him  gently." 

And  at  that  George  found  his  second  wind  of 
courage,  and  intervened  like  a  man.  "  She's  told 
me  nothing  with  her  tongue.  Nothing  for  certain. 
But  a  blind  man  on  a  galloping  horse  could  read 
the  thoughts  of  her.  Mrs.  Branstone,  I  love  that 
girl  as  if  she'd  put  a  spell  on  me.  It's  the  biggest 
feeling  that's  come  into  my  life,  and  I'm  full  and 
bursting  with  it,  or  I'd  not  have  the  face  to  expose 
my  inside  thoughts  to  you  like  this.  And  if  you'll 
only  tell  me  I  can  take  her,  the  Mayor  in  his  car- 
riage won't  be  happier  than  me." 

"  You  know  how  steady  George  is,  mother," 
Madge  seconded  him. 

"  He  needs  to  be,"  said  Anne  dryly.  "  He's  a 
window-cleaner." 

"  I'm  steady  by  nature,  Mrs.  Branstone,  as  well 
as  trade.  I  don't  drink.  Somehow  one  glass  of 
ale  is  enough  to  make  me  whimiscal,  so  I  take  none 
at  all.  I  know  I'm  being  bowdacious  in  my  love, 
but  I'm  moved  to  plead  with  you.  We'd  not  be 
standing  in  Sam's  way.  We'd  live  that  quiet  and 
snug  you'd  never  know  we're  in  the  town  at  all." 

Anne  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  trace  of  appre- 
ciation drenched  in  her  profound  contempt.  A 
poor  creature,  but  he  had  his  thimbleful  of  spunk ! 
"  It  would  need  to  be  quiet,"  she  said,  "  with  two 
to  keep  on  your  wage.  Are  you  contented  with 
it?" 

Disastrously,  he  was.  "  It's  a  regular  job,"  he 
said,  voicing  his  pride  at  being  above  the  ranks  of 


22  THE  MARBECK  INN 

casual  workers.     In  Anne's  view,  a  hopeless  case. 

"  It's  a  regular  rotten  job,"  she  retorted,  but 
spoke  more  softly  than  her  wont.  "  I've  Sam  to 
consider,  Madge.  You  might  live  quiet,  but  Sam's 
brother-in-law  has  got  to  make  a  better  show  of  it 
than  to  be  seen  all  over  the  place  at  the  top  of  a 
ladder  like  a  monkey  on  a  stick.  I'm  not  being 
hard  on  you,  George  Chappie,  and  I've  nothing 
against  you  bar  that  you're  not  good  enough.  You 
better  yourself  and  you'll  do.  Stay  as  you  are,  and 
Madge  'ull  do  the  same." 

George  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  found 
that  nothing  came.  It  was  a  regular  job,  it  satis- 
fied his  ambitions,  and  her  objections  were  inex- 
plicable. He  had  shot  his  bolt  and,  having  no  more 
to  say,  he  went,  relapsing  to  such  invertebracy  that 
when  he  found  that  Mrs.  Whitehead  had  not  added 
the  other  blanket  to  his  bed  he  had  nothing  to  say 
to  her  either,  but  spread  a  threadbare  overcoat  on 
the  coverlet  and  shivered  unhappi'y  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   HELL-FIRE   CLUB 

To  a  schoolboy  of  sixteen,  love  is  an  imbecile  emo- 
tion, its  victims  harmless  lunatics,  and  it  is  not  to 
be  supposed  that  Sam's  interest  in  the  affair  of 
Madge  and  George  was  based  on  intimate  under- 
standing. His  conspiratorial  action  came  rather 
as  a  lark :  behind,  perhaps,  was  the  recognition  that 
adults  did  habitually  make  fools  of  themselves  in 
this  way,  that  his  loyalty  in  such  a  case  was  to 
Madge  who  was  of  his  generation,  and  that  Anne 
in  obstructing  their  marriage  was  outrunning  the 
constable  in  her  demands  for  self-sacrifice  on  his 
behalf. 

Larking,  defined  as  enjoyable  interference  with 
other  people  for  motives  either  benevolent  or  purely 
egotistic,  was  a  weakness  of  Samuel  Branstone, 
and  the  boy  was  father  to  the  man.  He  did  not 
agree  with  Anne  that  the  marriage  was  inimical  to 
his  interests.  True,  George  cleaned  windows  and 
balanced  hardily  at  the  top  of  swaying  ladders,  a 
precarious  trade,  but  his  own.  Apparently  it 
suited  the  Georgian  temperament,  and  that  funam- 
bulist would  not  wear  a  placard  on  his  back  pro- 
claiming that  he  was  brother-in-law  to  Branstone 
of  the  Classical  Fifth. 

Branstone,  who  was  going  to  rise  in  the  world, 
would  necessarily  have  poor  relations,  and  it  hardly 
mattered  how  poor.  Indeed,  the  poorer  they  were 


24  THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  more  cheaply  he  could  afterwards  play  provi- 
dence to  them,  since  their  standards  would  be  low 
and  their  expectations  small. 

So  it  wasn't  a  nice,  impulsive  lark,  but  cold- 
blooded and  calculated,  which  is  almost  as  objec- 
tionable in  a  lark  as  organization  in  Charity.  It  is 
prudent  good  intentions  that  pave  the  way  to  Hell. 

He  saw  that  there  was  a  difference  between  this 
and  the  elopements  of  that  romantic  literature 
with  which  he  busied  his  relaxed  hours :  sometimes 
the  lady,  but  always  the  lover,  was  enterprising, 
while  he  knew  that  George  could  never  instigate 
anything.  But  that  made  things  more  amusing 
for  Sam,  who  could  pull  strings  with  absolute  as- 
surance that  his  puppets  would  never  take  to  danc- 
ing on  their  own  account,  or  to  any  tune  but  the 
one  he  piped;  and  it  is  not  given  to  all  of  us  to  be 
Omnipotence  at  the  price  of  a  ten-pound  note. 

As  always,  Sam  had  luck.  In  the  romantic 
elopements  whose  technique  he  began  to  study  with 
new  interest,  money  was  never  a  difficulty,  but  the 
god  in  the  machine  of  George  Chappie's  elopement 
must  put  money  in  his  purse,  or  there  could  be  no 
elopement. 

Sam  liked  money,  but  he  must  have  liked  power 
more,  for,  coming  miraculously  into  money  at  this 
time,  he  devoted  it  to  this  end.  He  came  into 
money  because  journalism  was  swiftly  on  the  up 
grade  since  the  days,  four  years  ago,  when  it 
couldn't  show  its  readers  a  photograph  of  Sam 
Branstone,  hero,  in  the  evening  paper,  and  had 
reached  the  civilized  stage  of  picture  competitions. 

You  bought  a  weekly  paper  which  printed  six 
crude  wood-cuts  supposed  to  disguise  the  names 


THE  HELL-FIRE  CLUB  25 

of  (say)  famous  battles,  and  it  did  not  strain  your 
intellect  to  discover  that  the  picture  of  a  station 
with  "  Waterloo  "  beneath  its  clock  was  intended 
to  represent  the  battle  of  that  name.  But  pause: 
it  was  not  all  so  easy  as  that.  Inflamed  by  avarice 
and  the  childish  ease  of  identifying  the  battles  in 
the  first  series,  you  bought  the  next  week's  num- 
ber, and  the  next,  until  the  competition  closed,  and 
you  found  that  the  designs  were  increasingly  baf- 
fling. It  was  not  quite  money  for  nothing.  It 
called  for  some  knowledge  of  history  and  a  sort  of 
knack  in  cheap  wit  to  interpret  the  pictures.  A 
garden  syringe,  and  a  stage  Irishman  brandishing 
something  that  might  easily  be  a  cudgel  but  wasn't, 
represented,  in  fact,  the  not  very  renowned  battle 
of  Seringapatam,  and  there  were  pictures  which 
could  bear  two  interpretations. 

It  was  this  last  which  led  Sam  to  go  into  partner- 
ship with  Lance  Travers.  Both  partners  ad- 
mitted that  Sam's  wits  were  the  sharper,  so  it  was 
only  fair  that  Lance  should  finance  the  partner- 
ship and  buy  the  papers.  And  Sam,  sanguine  of 
winning,  but  desiring  secrecy,  preferred  that  the 
firm  should  be  registered  in  Lance's  name,  so  that 
if  and  when  Sam  became  a  capitalist,  he  and  not 
Anne  should  control  his  wealth.  His  ideas  of  the 
uses  of  capital  already  went  beyond  the  Post  Office 
Savings  Bank. 

The  weekly  paper's  object  was  to  increase  its 
circulation,  so  it  allowed  and  encouraged  competi- 
tors to  send  in  numerous  attempts,  and  printed 
ambiguous  drawings  to  tempt  to  prodigality.  It 
is  to  be  feared  that  Classics  suffered  an  eclipse  at 
this  period  of  journalistic  enterprise.  The  part- 


26  THE  MARBECK  INN 

ners  had  other  and  more  serious  objects  in  life. 
And  they  won!  They  won  the  second  prize.  It 
wasn't  a  house  or  a  motor-car  or  any  of  the  fan- 
tastic prizes  with  which  still  later  journalism  re- 
warded its  intelligent  readers,  but  they  divided 
twenty  pounds  and,  for  them,  ten  pounds  each  was 
paradise  enow.  Lance  bought  a  bicycle.  Sam 
didn't.  He  bought  a  wedding-ring,  and  he  had  a 
talk  with  Sarah  Pullen,  who  was  so  passionately 
Madge's  bosom  friend  that  she  had  gone  into  the 
mill  with  her. 

Sarah  received  him  coldly;  she  looked  upon  him 
as  the  cause  of  her  friend's  martyrdom  and  thought 
the  cause  unworthy. 

Sam  cleared  the  air  at  once.  "  I'm  on  Madge's 
side.  I'm  not  going  to  see  her  made  unhappy  for 
my  sake,"  he  said,  and  Sarah  relented  so  far  as  to 
absolve  him  of  personal  malignity. 

"  Much  you  can  do  to  help  it,  though,"  she  said. 

"  I  can  do  much,"  he  replied,  "  but,"  he  flattered 
her,  "  perhaps  you  can  do  more.  You  see,  Sarah," 
he  went  on  confidentially,  "  Madge  trusts  you  and 
she  doesn't  trust  me.  Now,  between  ourselves,  she 
needs  a  friend's  advice.  Put  yourself  in  her  place. 
Would  you  knuckle  under  to  your  mother?  " 

"  I'd  see  her  further  first,"  said  Sarah. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Sam,  "  if  you  could  see  your 
way  to  communicating  your  views  to  Madge  with- 
out mentioning  that  I  suggested  it?  " 

"You!"  said  Sarah.  "You!  It  'ud  take  a 
dozen  your  size  to  suggest  anything  to  me.  Get 
off  home  and  play  marbles,  or  I'll  give  you  a  slap 
on  th'  earhole  that  you'll  remember." 

They  didn't  play  marbles  in  the  Classical  Fifth, 


THE  HELL-FIRE  CLUB  27 

but  Sam  was  content  to  put  her  allusion  down  to 
ignorance  rather  than  deliberate  insult.  He  had 
gained  his  point :  the  atmosphere  he  desired  created 
was  about  to  be  created. 

He  left  that  pot  to  simmer  and  turned  his  mind 
to  George,  whom  he  judged  less  susceptible  than 
Madge  to  the  promptings  of  a  friend.  Besides,  he 
knew  no  friend  of  George,  and  confessed  himself  at 
fault. 

One  day,  shortly  before  the  Whitsuntide  holi- 
days, he  was  staring  gloomily  out  of  the  window  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  outside  the  Fifth  Form  room, 
watching  the  boys  of  the  Chetham's  Hospital  at 
play  in  that  yard  of  theirs  which  the  Grammar 
School  pretends  to  scorn  but  secretly  envies,  when 
he  heard  behind  him  a  conversation  between  Lance 
Travers  and  Dubby  Stewart  which  set  his  brain 
awhirl.  Yet  it  was  not  a  distinguished  conversa- 
tion. 

"  Who  ever  heard  of  anyone  in  Manchester  stay- 
ing at  home  in  Whit  week?  "  asked  Lance. 

Sam  had  heard,  often. 

"  It  isn't  done,"  said  Dubby,  who  had  earned 
that  abiding  name  when  he  was  in  the  Lower  Third, 
and  once  read  "  dubious  "  aloud  with  a  short  "  u." 

"  But  I've  to  do  it,"  said  Lance.  "  My  gover- 
nor's too  busy  to  get  away.  Bit  damnable,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Matter  of  fact,"  said  Dubby,  "  we're  not  going, 
either." 

And  it  presently  appeared  that  out  of  the  form 
of  twenty-four  boys  there  were  as  many  as  six  who 
lived  in  Manchester  and  were  not  going  away.  "  It 
will  be  hell,"  prophesied  one  of  the  unfortunates. 


28  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  It  needn't,"  said  Sam  Branstone,  turning  from 
the  window  to  the  mournful  group. 

"  You're  used  to  it.  We're  not,"  said  someone 
cruelly,  and  Lance  smacked  his  head.  Allusions 
to  anybody's  poverty  were  bad  form. 

"  What's  the  prescription?  "  asked  Dubby,  and 
Sam  was  silent  for  a  minute.  "  Watch  him. 
Something's  dawning,"  chaffed  Dubby.  It  wasn't 
dawning,  it  had  dawned;  but  at  first  it  looked  like 
a  risk,  and  then  much  less  like  one,  and  Sam  smiled 
beautifully  as  he  realized  that  he,  at  least,  had  all 
to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose.  He  drew  the  luckless 
five  mysteriously  aloof. 

"  The  prescription,"  he  said,  "  is  to  have  a  holi- 
day in  Manchester,  in  a  holiday  house."  He  let 
that  soak  for  a  minute,  and  then,  "  Our  own  house," 
he  added.  "  There  are  six  of  us.  We  join  together 
and  we  take  a  house.  A  small  house,  and  I  dare- 
say some  of  you  won't  like  the  neighbours,  but  as 
the  neighbours  won't  like  us,  that's  as  broad  as  it's 
long.  Swagger  neighbours  wouldn't  stand  us  any- 
how, and  the  smaller  the  house  the  smaller  the  rent. 
Something  like  four-and-six  a  week  is  my  idea. 
That's  nine-pence  a  week  for  each  of  us,  and  we've 
a  house  of  our  own  for  that  to  do  what  we  like  in." 

"  By  Jove !  "  said  someone  admiringly. 

"What  shall  we  call  it?  "  said  another,  a  trifle 
doubtfully. 

"Call  it?"  said  Lance.  "  That's  obvious.  The 
Hell-fire  Club." 

And,  of  course,  if  any  doubt  remained,  that  set- 
tled it.  Who  would  regret  the  seaside  if  he  could 
be  a  member  of  the  Hell-fire  Club?  Lance  was 
commissioned  to  negotiate  with  his  father,  the  es- 


THE  HELL-FIRE  CLUB  29 

tate  agent,  but  it  was  Sam  who  really  chose  their 
house.  It  was  a  house  which  in  Sam's  opinion  ex- 
cellently suited  the  requirements  of  a  young  mar- 
ried couple  of  the  window-cleaning  class.  Mr. 
Travers  told  Lance  that  he  would  stop  the  value  of 
any  damage  out  of  his  pocket-money,  and  on  those 
conditions  let  them  the  house.  But  he  need  not 
have  made  that  cautionary  threat;  Sam  saw  that 
there  was  no  damage. 

The  Hell-fire  Club  assembled  for  its  initiatory 
debauch  on  the  first  day  of  the  holidays,  and  by 
eleven  a.m.  three  inexpert  cigarette-smokers  had 
had  occasion  to  use  the  slopstone  as  a  vomitorium. 
It  left  them  feeling  chilly,  and  Dubby  suggested 
that  a  house-warming  without  a  fire  was  a  solecism, 
even  on  a  hot  day,  so  a  lavish  plutocrat  brought  in 
two  sacks  of  coal  and  a  supply  of  chips.  Fire- 
lighting  is  a  sport  out  of  which  a  certain  excite- 
ment can  be  derived,  but  only  for  a  short  time,  and 
the  same  evanescent  quality  attaches  to  the  pleas- 
ure of  sitting  on  bare  boards. 

"  I'm  too  stiff  to  be  happy,"  said  Lance.  "  I  vote 
wre  furnish  this  club." 

Carried,  nem.  com.  "  I'm  afraid,  though,"  said 
Sam,  "  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  contribute 
much." 

"  Wait  till  you're  asked,  my  son,"  said  Dubby. 
"  By  the  time  we  five  have  finished  looting  our 
homes,  this  place  will  be  a  little  palace." 

Loot  is  a  brave  word,  suggestive  of  the  treasures 
of  the  purple  East,  but  it  was,  in  most  instances, 
a  case  of  permitted  loot,  the  offscourings  of  lum- 
ber rooms.  Sandy  Reed,  however,  was  the  sort  of 
boy  who  is  happiest  with  a  hammer  in  his  hand, 


30  THE  MARBECK  INN 

and  Dubby  had  an  eye  for  chintz.  To  repair  the 
veteran  furniture  which  they  brought  struck  Sandy 
as  work  for  a  man.  Behind  him  was  his  infantile 
past  of  fret- work  and  model  yachts ;  before  him  the 
foremanship  of  the  Hell-fire  Club  repair-shop.  He 
worked  and  was  the  cause  of  work  in  others.  And 
it  was  willing  work,  partly  because  it  was  for  an 
idea,  partly  because  that  first  day  had  threatened 
boredom  and  here  was  something  definite  to  do, 
mostly  because  it  was  making  a  noise. 

The  ill-assorted  chairs,  tables  and  sofas  which 
they  collected  under  their  roof  had  this  in  common 
at  the  end,  that  they  were  strong;  and  having  by 
their  own  efforts  made  them  strong,  the  boys  did 
not  by  their  rioting  make  them  weak  again.  They 
respected  their  handiwork,  and  Dubby's  chintz  pro- 
cured a  sort  of  uniformity. 

A  club,  of  course,  must  eat  and  drink,  and 
kitchen  utensils,  mostly  odd  but  all  practicable, 
were  gathered  together  that  they  might  precede  the 
pleasures  of  eating  with  the  pleasures  of  cooking. 
It  was  camp-life  in  town,  except  that  they  went 
home  to  sleep,  and  so  long  as  the  activities  of  "  set- 
tling in  "  endured,  they  relished  it  abundantly. 

About  a  fortnight  was  what  Sam  had  mentally 
set  as  $he  life  of  the  Hell-fire  Club,  and  he  had  no 
intentions  of  paying  the  rent  by  himself  for  more 
than  a  week  or  so.  They  had  decided  that  Sunday 
was  not  a  club-day  —  there  were  difficulties  at 
home  —  and  Sam  took  George  Chappie  for  a  walk. 
"  I  like  this  street,"  he  said  as  they  turned  the  cor- 
ner. "  Madge  always  fancied  this  district." 

"  Did  she?  "  said  George  gloomily. 

"  We'll  go  in  here,"  and  Sam  produced  the  key 


THE  HELL-FIRE  CLUB  31 

and  introduced  George  to  the  Club  premises. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

The  chintz  took  George's  eye  at  once.  "  By 
gum!  "  he  said. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Sam.  "  This  is  where  you're 
going  to  live  when  you're  married  to  Madge.  It 
isn't  your  furniture  yet,  but  it's  going  to  be.  I'm 
going  to  give  it  you  for  a  wedding  present.  There 
isn't  a  bed  in,  as  you  see,  but  there  will  be,  and  I 
ask  you,  George,  is  it  or  is  it  not  better  than  Mrs. 
Whitehead's?  " 

"  Aye,"  said  George,  "  but  you're  going  ahead  a 
bit  too  fast  for  me." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Sam.  "  Yours  is  the  pace  that 
kills.  The  slow  pace,  not  the  quick.  Now,  this 
place  isn't  at  your  disposal  yet,  but  if  you'll  put 
up  the  banns  next  Sunday  and  get  married  as  soon 
as  you  can  after  the  three  Sundays,  you  can  walk 
in  here  and  hang  your  hat  up  on  that  hook.  It's 
a  brass  hook,  George.  We  don't  approve  of  nails 
in  this  house.  I  might  mention  that  it  will  be  all 
right  about  the  banns.  Mother  has  dinner  to  cook 
on  Sundays  and  doesn't  go  to  morning  service,  and 
to-day  is  father's  Sunday  off  from  the  station  and 
he's  on  duty  for  the  next  three  Sundays.  So,"  he 
concluded,  "  there  you  are." 

"  You're  promising  a  lot.     Is  this  house  yours?  " 

"  The  rent  is  four-and-six,"  said  Sam,  "  which 
isn't  more  than  you  can  afford  to  pay.  And  you 
bind  yourself  to  nothing  by  putting  up  the  banns. 
If  I  fail  to  deliver  you  this  house  and  all  that's  in 
it,  you  needn't  get  married.  But  I've  a  word  of  ad- 
vice for  you,  George.  Let  Madge  hear  of  it  first 
from  the  parson's  lips  in  church.  She  won't 


32  THE  MARBECK  INN 

scream  and  she  won't  faint.  We  don't,  in  our  fam- 
ily, and  it  saves  you  the  trouble  of  asking  her.  Is 
it  a  bet?  " 

George  hesitated.  "  Come  upstairs  and  see  the 
other  room,''  said  Sam.  George  saw,  and  mar- 
velled. "  I'll  come  round  with  you  now  to  church," 
said  Sam.  "  We've  just  nice  time  to  catch  the 
clerk  after  service." 

"  By  gum !  "  said  George  Chappie.  "  I'll  do  it. 
They  can't  hang  me.  But,"  he  added  as  he  cast  a 
last  look  at  the  household  gods  which  Sam  Bran- 
stone  promised  should  be  his,  "  they  may  hang 
you." 

Sam  grinned  blandly. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   COMPLEAT  ANGLER 

HE  had  succeeded  with  George  beyond  expecta- 
tions, but  that  easy  victory  did  not  deceive  him  into 
thinking  that  his  battle  was  won.  Madge,  he  had 
said,  would  neither  scream  nor  faint  on  hearing 
her  banns  announced  and  he  wished  he  was  as  con- 
fident about  it  as  he  had  sounded.  Much,  in  his 
view  too  much,  depended  on  the  vigour  of  Sarah 
Pullen's  advice. 

He  was  taking  risks  all  round,  but  found  he 
rather  liked  it.  There  was  the  risk  that  the  Hell- 
fire  Club  would  not  tire  of  its  toy  in  time.  An 
encouraging  increase  in  absenteeism  amongst  the 
members  elated  him,  but  the  steadfast  faith  of  an 
enthusiastic  pair  depressed  him  sadly.  He  hoped, 
however,  to  find  a  way  out  of  that  wood. 

And  there  was  the  risk  that  some  acquaintance 
of  Anne's  would  mention  the  banns  to  her.  He 
saw  no  way  to  counter  that.  It  was  a  risk  he  had 
to  take.  Fortunately,  his  father's  best  friend, 
Terry  O'Rourke,  was  a  Catholic. 

As  things  stood,  he  saw  Madge  as  the  weakest 
link  in  his  chain.  She  collapsed  before  the  will  of 
Anne  like  an  opera  hat,  and  he  was  candidly  afraid 
of  her  making  a  scene  in  church,  either  from  pleas- 
ure or  from  anger,  when  the  banns  were  read.  Not 
that  he  shrank  on  principle  from  scenes,  only  that 


34.  THE  MARBECK  INN 

word  of  it  would  undoubtedly  be  carried  to  Anne 
and  the  fat  be  in  the  fire. 

Rummaging  one  day  that  week  at  a  second-hand 
bookstall  in  Withy  Grove,  without  the  slightest  in- 
tention of  buying,  he  was  attracted  by  a  title  and 
recklessly  planked  his  tuppence  down.  Intrigue, 
he  felt,  was  punishing  his  finances,  but  this  title 
gave  him  too  good  an  opening  with  Madge  to  be  the 
subject  of  economy.  The  title  was  "  The  Clandes- 
tine Marriage,"  and  he  knew  that  Sarah  Pullen 
would  be  in  that  night  to  see  Madge. 

He  was  reading  the  play  very  earnestly  when  she 
called,  though  it  rather  bored  him  and  he  thought 
its  plot  elementary  compared  with  his  own.  Sarah 
was  no  reader,  but  she  noticed  the  cover  because 
the  word  "  marriage  "  was  an  unfailing  lure. 

"  Whatever  has  the  boy  got  hold  of  now?  "  She 
inquired,  taking  his  bait  sweetly. 

He  showed  her.  "  Do  you  know  what  it 
means?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  know  what  marriage  means,"  she  said. 

"  By  hearsay,"  he  told  the  virgin  pungently. 
"  But  I  meant  the  middle  word." 

She  eyed  it  closely.  "  You're  always  bragging 
your  knowledge.  I'm  not  at  the  Grammar  myself 
and  Greek  is  Greek  to  me.  Fat  lot  of  good  it  'ud 
be  in  a  weaving-shed,  and  all."  She  had  a  prac- 
tical mind. 

"  This  isn't  Greek,"  he  said,  "  it's  English." 

"  It's  not  the  sort  of  English  we  talk  in  Man- 
chester, choose  how." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means." 

"Wait  till  you're  asked,  cheeky." 

He  didn't  wait.     "  It  means  surreptitious." 


THE  COMPLEAT  ANGLER  35 

"  I'm  a  grand  sight  the  wiser  for  that.  It'll  mean 
a  thick  ear  for  you  if  you  don't  stop  coming  the 
schoolmaster  over  me.  I'm  here  to  talk  to  Madge, 
not  to  you." 

He  winked  at  Sarah  with  the  eye  which  was  hid- 
den from  Madge.  "  The  Secret  Marriage,  Sarah. 
That's  what  it  means." 

Sarah  was  interested  now.  "  Does  it  tell  you 
how  to  work  it?  " 

"  I  might  do  that  myself,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  talk  so  foolish,  Sam,"  said  his  sister. 
"Are  you  coming  for  a  walk,  Sarah?" 

"  When  I'm  ready,"  said  Sarah.  "  Now  then, 
young  Sam,  spit  it  out." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sam.  "  It  isn't  much.  Only  I  hap- 
pened to  be  out  for  a  walk  with  George  Chappie  the 
other  day  and  we  went  into  a  house  that's  pretty 
full  of  furniture." 

"  George  Chappie  with  a  house  of  furniture !  " 
cried  Madge. 

"  I  suppose  he's  getting  married,"  said  Sam. 
"He  courted  you  at  one  time,  didn't  he,  Madge? 
I  rather  liked  his  taste  in  furniture." 

"  Taste !  "  cried  Madge  with  spirit.  "  I'll  taste 
him.  I'll  eat  him  raw  for  this.  After  all  he  said 
to  me  no  more  than  a  month  ago,  to  take  up  with 
another  wench!  What's  the  hussy's  name?" 

"  Her  name?  "  said  Sam.  "  Let's  see.  Sunday 
to-morrow,  isn't  it?  The  banns  might  be  up.  If 
I  were  you  I'd  go  and  find  out." 

"As  true  as  I'm  alive  I'll  tear  every  hair  from 
her  head,"  said  Madge. 

"  I  wouldn't,"  said  Sam.  "  You  have  red  hair, 
but  better  red  than  bald." 


36  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Her !  "  said  Sarah.     "  Do  you  mean ?  " 

"  Look  here,  Sarah,"  Sam  interrupted,  and  used 
a  formula  which  he  had  thought  out  rather  care- 
fully. "  Do  you  imagine  I'd  be  giving  you  a  mes- 
sage like  this  if  he  hadn't  sent  it?  " 

"Message!    What  message?" 

Then  Anne  came  in. 

"  Yes,  Sarah,"  she  heard  Sam  saying  with  a  peda- 
gogic air.  "  The  word  clandestine  means  secret." 

He  resumed  with  zest  the  reading  of  his  play  and, 
though  theirs  was  a  small  house,  managed  to  avoid 
being  alone  with  Madge  up  to  church  time  on  the 
morrow.  He  had  business  out  that  Saturday  night 
—  to  make  sure  of  George,  whom  he  found  full  of 
panting  resolution  to  catch  the  clerk  and  cancel  the 
banns.  The  glamour  of  that  furniture  had  lasted 
this  long  with  George,  but  the  awful  hazard  of  the 
Sunday  morning  eclipsed  the  glow  as  it  came 
nearer.  George  wilted  at  the  thought  of  Madge 
rising  in  her  place  with  a  firm,  irrevocable  "  I  for- 
bid the  banns  "  upon  her  lips. 

There  had  begun,  too,  to  be  a  quality  too  much 
like  that  of  an  Arabian  night  about  his  visit  to  the 
Club.  Sam  was  a  wonderful  boy  and  George 
granted  his  high  superiority;  but  even  George,  the 
humble,  did  not  quite  see  Sam  as  a  miracle-worker. 
He  even  began  to  doubt  the  existence  of  the  en- 
chanted Palace  which  Sam  had  shown  him,  and 
that  it  was  within  Sam's  competence  to  hand  over 
that  house  to  him  appeared  now  ridiculous.  Sam 
came  just  in  time. 

"  Would  you  care,"  he  said,  "  to  have  another 
look  at  your  house?  " 

George  would,  but  he  hadn't  time  then:  he  was 


THE  COMPLEAT  ANGLER  37 

going  to  see  the  clerk,  and  till  he  saw  the  clerk  he 
was  a  man  obsessed  with  an  idea.  "  I  suppose," 
he  said  sceptically,  "  that  it's  still  there?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Sam,  "  and  has  a  few  more 
things  in  since  you  saw  it." 

"  Well,"  said  George,  "  it's  a  nice  house,  but  I'm 
going  to  see  yon  clerk  to  tell  him  not  to  put  up 
banns." 

Sam  smiled,  relieved  to  know  that  he  was  not 
too  late.  "  Don't  do  that,"  he  said.  "  Madge  is 
pleased." 

"  What !  "  said  George.     "  Say  that  again." 

"  Madge  is  pleased,"  repeated  Sam  brazenly.  He 
was  sure  she  was.  He  trusted  Sarah  Pullen  now. 

"  Did  she  tell  you  so?  "  asked  George. 

"  Do  you  imagine  I'd  be  giving  you  a  message 
like  this  if  she  hadn't  sent  it?  " 

George  took  his  cap  off.  "  If  that's  so "  he 

said. 

"  It's  so,"  said  Sam,  not  defining  what  was  so. 

The  banns  went  up,  and  Sam  was  able  to  devote 
his  undivided  attention  to  Club  affairs,  as  to  which 
he  had  an  idea  arising  out  of  the  boredom  he  suf- 
fered while  reading  "  The  Clandestine  Marriage." 
That  tuppence  was  a  fruitful  investment. 

A  wet  day  came  and  with  it,  what  was  now  rare, 
a  full  attendance  at  the  Club.  But,  since  their 
repairs  and  decorations  were  complete,  there  was 
nothing  to  do  except  to  sit  on  their  reliable  chairs 
and  admire  their  reliability. 

"For  a  Hell-fire  Club,"  said  Sandy,  "we  lack 
hellishness." 

"  Lance  named  us,"  said  Dubby.  "  He  ought  to 
make  suggestions." 


38  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Of  a  new  name?  "  asked  Sandy.  "  Call  it  the 
Eviscerated  Emasculates." 

"  Call  it  a  damned  failure,"  said  another,  and 
was  sat  upon.  They  welcomed  the  diversion,  but 
the  thought  had  reached  home. 

"  What's  the  matter,"  said  Sam,  when  order  was 
restored,  "  is  that  we  aren't  serious  enough." 

"Oh,  hell!"  said  Lance. 

"  I  mean  it,  Lance.  We're  not  a  set  of  kids  from 
the  Lower  School.  If  we  were,  we  might  sit  round 
and  read  Chums  and  the  Boy's  Own  Paper."  Two 
men  of  the  Classical  Fifth  and  the  Hell-fire  Club 
looked  guiltily  at  him,  but  decided  that  he  was  not 
making  personal  allusions.  "As  it  is,  we  have 
higher  interests.  Now,  there  are  six  of  us  here  and 
that's  enough,  with  doubling,  to  take  parts  in  a 
Shakesperian  play.  I  vote  we  read  a  play.  In 
fact,  I  brought  some  down." 

This  suited  Lance,  who  had  aspirations  towards 
the  stage.  "  Bags  I  Romeo,"  he  said. 

Sandy  was  less  fired  to  enthusiasm,  but,  "All 
right,"  he  said,  "  if  you  choose  a  play  with  lots  of 
thick  bits  in  it." 

"  We  certainly,"  said  Sam,  "  shall  not  read  an 
edition  prepared  for  the  use  of  girls'  schoofs." 

"  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,,  then,"  said  Dubby. 
"  Lance  can  spout  Romeo  out  of  his  bedroom  win- 
dow to  stop  a  cat-fight." 

Sam  would  have  preferred  a  tragedy;  he  feared 
they  would  enjoy  reading  The  Merry  Wives  and 
so,  on  the  whole,  they  did,  but  there  were  only  five 
promises  to  turn  up  next  day  and  two  of  those  were 
conditional  upon  its  being  wet.  Sam  wasn't  dis- 
satisfied, and  as  a  comedy  was  postulated  chose 


THE  COMPLEAT  ANGLER  39 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  because  he  thought  that 
it  was  dull  in  patches  and  also  for  a  reason  of  his 
own.  He  wanted  to  make  certain  that  he  had  noth- 
ing to  learn  as  an  intriguer  from  a  famous  case 
of  match-making.  He  found  he  had. 

Although  it  rained,  Much  Ado  had  only  four 
readers  at  the  opening  and  only  two  at  the  close. 
Lance  sent  postcards  that  night  to  the  members 
announcing  Hamlet  for  the  morrow.  He  wanted 
to  read  Hamlet's  part,  but  if  you  can't  have  Ham- 
let without  the  Prince,  neither  can  you  read  it 
satisfactorily  with  one  other  participant. 

Lance  and  Sam  struggled  through  an  act,  then 
Lance  gave  in.  "  I'm  getting  tired  of  this  Club," 
he  said.  "  The  members  have  no  brain." 

"  It  isn't  raining,"  said  Sam. 

"  No.  Lancashire's  batting,  too.  Let's  go  and 
see  Albert  Ward  and  Frank  Sugg  at  Old  Tafford." 

Next  day,  the  Club  was  uninhabited,  except  by 
the  ghost  of  Sam's  broadest  smile,  its  only  tenant 
for  a  week.  The  freeze-out  was  accomplished,  and 
its  engineer  had  confidence  enough  to  spend  three 
pounds  of  his  capital  on  a  bed  and  bedding,  "  to 
await  instructions  before  delivering."  Then  he 
saw  Lance  Travers  and  pointed  out  to  him  that 
there  were  better  uses  to  be  made  of  ninepence  a 
week  than  to  waste  it  on  a  club  which  nobody  used. 

"  Nuisance,  though,  about  the  chairs  and  stuff," 
said  Lance,  implying  his  agreement  that  the  Club 
had  failed. 

"  I  can't  have  them  back  here,  because  I'm  turn- 
ing our  attic  into  an  aviary.  That's  why  I've  had 
no  time  to  go  to  the  Club,"  he  explained  with  a  faint 
apology,  and  took  Sam  up  to  see  his  birds. 


40  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"What  shall  we  do  about  all  that  furniture  at 
the  Club?  Pity  the  fifth  of  November  is  so  far 
off." 

"  I'll  try  to  think  of  something,"  said  Sam,  rather 
terrified  at  Lance's  incendiary  suggestion.  "  In 
any  case  it  must  be  discussed  at  a  full  meeting. 
Let's  call  the  members  together." 

An  urgent  whip  resulted  in  a  full  and  slightly 
shame-faced  attendance.  Nobody  tried  to  dispute 
that  the  Club  was  a  corpse:  the  only  question  was 
what  to  do  with  its  bones.  "  Well,"  said  Sam,  "  if 
none  of  you  has  a  suggestion  to  make,  I'll  make  one. 
Nobody's  aching  to  take  the  stuff  back  where  it 
came  from.  Now,"  he  went  on  candidly,  "  we  could 
sell  it  to  a  dealer,  but  I'm  against  that  because 
dealers  are  thieves  and  they'd  give  us  about  thirty 
bob  for  the  lot.  But  my  sister's  getting  married 
and  I  don't  mind  offering  the  Club  five  pounds  for 
its  property.  That,"  he  indicated,  "  is  a  pound 
each  for  the  five  of  you." 

"  Cash  on  the  nail  ?  "  asked  Dubby,  whose  fore- 
bears came  from  Scotland.  He  distrusted  Sam  in 
the  character  of  capitalist. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  explained  the  candid  Sam.  "  You 
see,  when  I  met  Lance  yesterday  I  said  I'd  think 
of  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  and  I  came  pre- 
pared." 

"  I  vote  we  take  it,"  said  Sandy.  "  I  can  buy  a 
lot  of  tools  with  a  pound." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  should  pander  to  your  vices," 
said  Lance.  "  We're  still  a  Club  and  this  is  club 
money." 

"  The  Club  is  dead." 

"  Not  yet.     Not  till  we've  killed  it  gloriously  on 


THE  COMPLEAT  ANGLER  41 

Sam's  sister's  fiver.  There's  a  hell  of  a  bust  in  five 
pounds  and  we  have  to  drink  the  bride's  health. 
Champagne's  my  drink." 

It  wasn't,  but  it  was  rather  too  often  his  father's, 
and  Lance  was  emulous,  and,  frightened  a  little  of 
his  own  suggestion,  carried  things  now  with  a  rush. 
"  We're  the  Hell-fire  Club,"  he  said,  "  and  cham- 
pagne is  the  dew  of  Hell.  Any  member  shirking 
will  be  held  under  the  tap  for  half  an  hour."  They 
braved  it  out,  most  of  them  conscience-stricken, 
and  the  Hell-fire  Club  almost  deserved  its  name  in 
the  hour  of  its  extinction.  Things  might  have  been 
serious  had  not  Sam,  by  a  well-timed  push,  caused 
Lance  to  shatter  a  full  magnum  on  the  floor. 

As  it  was,  five  hangdog  members  reached  home 
late,  but  presentable.  But  they  were  most  un- 
happy boys.  The  sixth  boy  was  happy.  He  had 
consumed  a  sober  and  interesting  meal  at  other 
people's  expense,  encountering  several  delectable 
sorts  of  food  for  the  first  time  and  experiencing  that 
human  but  reprehensible  thrill  which  results  from 
feeling  that  one  is  a  clever  fellow. 

Distance  of  course  lent  enchantment  to  the  Hell- 
fire  Club.  When  school  reassembled  and  boys 
fresh  from  the  seaside  tried  to  excite  the  jealousy 
of  the  stay-at-homes  with  tales  of  land  and  sea, 
they  were  loftily  put  in  their  places  and  struck  to 
dumb  admiration  by  legends  of  the  dashing  vice 
of  the  Hell-fire  Club.  It  lived  in  story  as  it  had 
never  lived  in  fact. 

Sam  visited  the  premises,  on  the  day  after  the 
Club  died,  to  wipe  up  the  mess,  thriftily  to  salve 
some  untouched  edibles  for  a  coming  wedding-feast, 
and  by  receiving  and  installing  the  bed  to  dedicate 


42  THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  house  to  better  uses.  Then  he  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket  and  took  it  to  George.  He  had  kept  his 
bargain  and  now  it  was  for  George  to  keep  his. 

There  remained  the  question  of  Anne,  and  as  a 
preliminary  to  its  solution  Sam  had  recommended 
Madge  to  look  peaked.  Madge,  naturally  inclined 
to  that  condition,  had  no  difficulty  in  accentuating 
its  appearance  by  recourse  to  the  vinegar  bottle 
until  even  Anne,  intolerant  as  she  was  of  small 
weaknesses,  had  to  own  that  Madge  looked  unhappy 
and  unwell. 

On  the  night  before  her  wedding,  Madge  shut 
herself  up  in  her  bedroom  whence  the  sounds  as  of 
a  very  ecstasy  of  woe  penetrated  to  the  kitchen. 
Yet  her  woe  was  not  ecstatic  and  hardly  woe  at  all. 
She  wept  because  she  was  going  to  be  married  next 
day,  because  when  one  is  going  to  be  married  next 
day  one  weeps.  One  brims  with  undefinable  emo- 
tion and  overflows  into  tears. 

But  Anne,  listening  from  the  kitchen,  where  she 
sat  with  Sam,  was  moved  to  unaccustomed  soft- 
ness. "  That  girl  is  fretting  sadly,"  she  said. 
"  It's  a  mort  of  trouble  to  be  taking  over  a  wastrel 
like  George  Chappie." 

"  Mother,"  said  Sam  speculatively,  "  I  wonder 
whether  you  have  ever  considered  the  influence  of 
matter  over  mind?" 

"  I'm  considering  the  influence  of  something  that 
does  not  matter,"  she  replied.  "  The  influence  of 
George  Chappie." 

"  Suppose,"  said  Sam,  "  suppose  that  George 
Chappie  lived  in  a  decent  house  of  his  own,  with 
furniture  that  he  took  a  pride  in,  instead  of  in  those 
awful  lodgings  of  his.  Don't  you  think  that  he 


THE  COMPLEAT  ANGLER  43 

would  live  up  to  his  surroundings?  Don't  you 
think  that  it  would  make  a  man  of  him?  " 

"  George  Chappie  is  as  far  from  having  a  decent 
house  as  he  is  from  wedding  our  Madge." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Sam,  "  as  far  —  and  as  near." 

"  As  near?  "  asked  Anne  suspiciously.  "  Sithee, 
Sam,  have  you  been  up  to  something?  " 

"Will  you  hear  me  out  if  I  tell  you  a  story?" 
he  asked. 

"  Am  I  going  to  like  it?  "  she  fenced  cautiously. 

"  I  am  hoping,"  he  said  piously,  "  to  have  your 
forgiveness.  It's  a  matter  of  happiness." 

He  told  her  what  he  had  done  and  how  and  why 
he  had  done  it.  "  The  wedding's  to-morrow,"  he 
ended,  "  and  I  hope  you'll  go."  He  told  his  exploit 
without  arrogance  and  without  extenuation,  and  it 
is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Anne  was  unaware  that  a 
nice  moralist  would  have  found  much  in  it  to  criti- 
cize, but  Sam  had  come  out  on  top  and  that,  for 
Anne,  almost  excused  his  methods.  It  almost  ex- 
cused his  coming  out  on  top  of  her. 

"  I'll  go  to  the  wedding,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll  for- 
give them.  They  are  no  more  than  a  pair  of 
naturals  in  the  hands  of  a  schemer."  Sam  grinned 
appreciatively.  "  But  I'll  not  let  you  down  so 
easy,"  she  went  on,  and  the  grin  faded.  "  You're 
clever,  my  lad,  but  you're  a  schoolboy,  and  the  place 
for  showing  your  cleverness  is  at  school.  It's  too 
long  since  you  brought  me  home  a  prize,  and  if  you 
want  my  forgiveness  for  letting  you  rap  my 
knuckles  like  this,  you'll  bring  me  a  prize  this  Mid- 
summer. Is  that  a  bargain,  Sam?  " 

"  I  always  try,"  he  said,  which  was  true. 

«  Try  harder,"  said  Anne  Branstone  dryly. 


CHAPTER  V 

LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS 

SAM  had  not  a  dog's  chance  of  winning  the  form 
prize  of  the  Classical  Fifth,  and  knew  it.  He 
learnt  with  difficulty,  retaining  what  he  learnt; 
but  the  process  was  slow  and  his  form  was  over- 
shadowed by  the  brilliance  of  two  boys  who  learnt 
easily  and  rapidly. 

It  annoyed  Sam  to  know  that  he  had  no  chance 
against  these  two.  Poetic  justice  cried  out  that 
he,  the  railway  porter's  son,  should  defeat  Bull, 
whose  father  was  a  professor  at  the  University,  and 
Adams,  son  of  a  merchant  prince  whose  "  Hong  " 
was  as  familiar  in  the  godowns  of  Shanghai  as  his 
name  in  Princess  Street  and  on  'Change;  but  it 
was  hopeless.  The  prize  lay  inevitably  between 
these  two  who  took  to  classics  like  ducks  to  water 
and  read  Homer  for  (they  said)  pleasure,  whilst 
their  form-mates  struggled  with  Euripides  in 
acknowledged  agony.  They  were  both  unpopular, 
both  prigs,  but  unassailably  pre-eminent ;  and  they 
were  two.  Had  it  been  a  case  of  Bull  alone,  or 
Adams  alone,  Sam  might  have  worked  heroically  on 
the  off-chance  that  his  rival  would  be  ill  at  ex- 
amination time,  but  it  was  too  far-fetched  to  hope 
that  both  would  simultaneously  ail. 

He  had  long  passed  beyond  Anne's  powers  of 
tuition.  It  was  not  a  "sound  commercial  educa- 


LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS  45 

tion  "  that  one  got  on  the  Classical  side,  and  mathe- 
matics had  ceased  to  figure  in  his  course.  He  went 
to  the  Classical  side  because  Lance  was  there  and 
stayed  because  of  Anne's  golden  dream  of  Oxford. 
The  gold,  she  knew,  was  tarnished  now,  but  if  she 
no  longer  saw  in  Sam  the  winner  of  an  open  scholar- 
ship at  Balliol,  she  had  not  abandoned  hope  that 
he  might  carry  off  one  of  the  close  scholarships 
which  the  School  commanded.  Sam  himself,  was 
sceptical  about  even  that  qualified  ambition. 

But  he  had  to  win  a  prize  to  satisfy  Anne,  and 
if  he  could  not  win  the  prize  of  which  she  was 
thinking,  he  would  try  to  win  one  of  which  she  did 
not  think.  It  was  certainly  a  prize,  and  a  hand- 
some prize,  open  not  only  to  a  form  but  to  the 
whole  school  —  a  prize  for  reading. 

He  had  a  secondary  spur,  too,  in  the  fact  that 
Lance,  that  ardent  elocutionist,  looked  on  this  prize 
as  his  own,  and  the  thought  of  beating  Lance  on  his 
chosen  ground  tickled  Sam's  fancy.  Not  that  he 
was  cocksure.  He  knew  his  handicap  too  well  for 
that,  but  he  had  always  known  it,  and  from  the  first 
day  of  his  school  life  studied  to  correct  his  accent. 
He  did  not,  even  now,  even  at  the  price  of  being 
thought  pedantic,  indulge  in  slang.  Lance,  per- 
haps because  he  came  from  a  motherless  home,  per- 
haps from  a  stupid  bravado,  larded  his  speech  with 
silly  blasphemies  and  the  current  vulgarisms,  and, 
in  faet,  he  did  it  with  an  air ;  but  Sam  had  to  guard 
his  tongue.  There  is  a  difference,  too  easily  de- 
tected, between  correct  slang  and  incorrect  Eng- 
lish: one  must  first  speak  correctly  before  one  can 
dare  successfully  to  be  incorrect,  and  Sam's  handi- 
cap was  that  he  came  from  a  home  where  they  used, 


46  THE  MARBECK  INN 

in  Sarah  Pullen's  words,  "the  sort  of  English  we 
speak  in  Manchester ;  "  the  other  sort  was  an  alien 
tongue  and  held  to  be  an  affectation  of  the  insin- 
cere. 

There  was  a  set  piece  —  the  opening  speech  in 
Comus  —  the  inefficients  were  weeded  out,  and  the 
elect  tested  on  "  unseens."  It  was  the  "  unseens  " 
that  frightened  Sam:  he  rehearsed  Comus  till  a 
misplaced  aitch  was  a  physical  impossibility,  and 
he  was  sure  of  his  rhythm  and  the  intelligence  of 
his  rendering ;  but  he  knew  that  aitches  were  elusive 
when  he  was  nervous.  "  Then  don't  be  nervous," 
was  counsel  of  perfection :  the  ordeal  of  the  "  un- 
seen "  test  intimidated  him. 

But  he  practised,  and  did  not  spare  himself.  If 
sweat  and  blood  would  win  that  prize,  Sam  would 
spend  both.  He  read  aloud  by  the  hour  —  classics 
of  course  suffering  —  with  a  pin  in  his  hand  with 
which  he  resolutely  drew  blood  at  every  aitch  he 
dropped;  and  in  his  reading  he  was  fortunate.  He 
read  The  Spectator  which  he  had  borrowed  by  pure 
chance  from  the  school  library,  and  the  judges 
handed  him  a  passage  from  The  Spectator  to  read 
at  the  unseen  test,  and  one  of  the  great  speeches  of 
Marlowe's  Tamburlaine,  whose  thundering  music 
had  so  much  attracted  Sam  that  he  knew  the  purple 
patch  by  heart. 

He  won  the  prize;  staggered  across  the  platform 
of  the  Free  Trade  Hall  with  a  Gibbon  in  six  sumptu- 
ous volumes,  calf-bound,  stamped  with  the  school 
arms ;  he  rode  "  in  triumph  through  Persepolis," 
and  thought  that  it  was  "  sweet  and  full  of  pomp ;  " 
then,  when  it  was  over  and  the  last  "  Gaudeamus  " 
of  that  Speech  Day  had  been  sung  and  the  last 


LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS  47 

cheers  for  the  holidays  (always  the  heartiest)  been 
given,  he  sought  his  mother  in  the  crowd. 

"Well?"  said  Sam,  who  had  kept  this  glory  as 
a  surprise  for  her. 

"  Aye,"  said  Anne,  "  but  it  might  be  better. 
You've  won  a  prize  and  you're  forgiven,  but  you 
know  well  enough  that  you've  diddled  me.  I 
wanted  a  prize  to  show  that  you'd  the  gift  of  learn- 
ing, and  you've  won  one  to  show  that  you've  the 
gift  of  the  gab.  I  knew  it  already,"  she  ended 
dryly,  "  and  you're  nobbut  tenth  out  of  the  twenty- 
four  in  your  class.  Will  they  move  you  up?  " 

She  dissembled  the  genuine  pride  with  which  she 
had  seen  him  cross  that  platform  and  take  his 
bulky  prize,  because  she  felt  inly  that  the  chief 
talent  Sam  had  proved  was  a  talent  for  deception. 
This  was  a  prize,  but  she  thought  it  too  barely 
within  the  meaning  of  the  act :  it  observed  the  letter 
of  his  bargain  and  eluded  the  spirit. 

She  did  him  less  than  justice.  The  average  boy 
came  to  school  knowing  English ;  Sam  had  had  to 
learn  it,  and  here  was  proof,  in  a  prize  won  against 
the  whole  school  and  not  merely  against  a  form, 
that  he  had  learned  his  lesson  well. 

Her  disparagement  depressed  him.  He  had  not 
reached,  and  with  a  mother  like  Anne  he  could  not 
at  his  age  reach,  the  healthy  younger  generation's 
contempt  for  the  opinions  of  its  elders.  He  felt 
weakened  in  his  belief  in  the  social  and  economical 
value  of  a  decent  accent  and  grew  careless  in  pre- 
serving it.  His  Gibbon  lay  upon  his  shelf  unread, 
an  empty  glory,  and,  in  the  event,  his  prize  was  to 
lead  to  a  calamity.  It  was  to  lead,  indirectly,  to 
Tom  Branstone's  death. 


48  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Sam  found  himself,  after  the  holidays,  moved  up 
to  the  Transitus,  the  last  boy  to  be  moved  there 
from  the  Fifth.  He  was  not  sure  that  it  pleased 
him.  Left  in  the  Fifth  he  might  have  been  a  Triton 
among  the  minnows:  in  the  Transitus  he  was  in- 
curably a  minnow.  But  he  discovered  there  an  at- 
mosphere to  which  he  might  have  responded  better 
than  he  did.  Discipline  was  slacker;  one  had 
reached  the  ante-room  to  the  Sixth  and  was  as- 
sumed to  be  serious;  one  had  the  privilege  of  a 
form-room  which  was  open  in  the  lunch-hour  so  that 
one  had  not  to  wait  writh  smaller  fry  in  the  cor- 
ridors ;  and,  above  all,  the  form-master  was  a  gentle- 
man as  well  as  a  scholar. 

He  was  not  blind  to  these  advantages,  but  he  did 
not,  somehow,  "  come  on  "  with  his  classics.  The 
terrible  facility  of  Bull  and  Adams  was  a  constant 
discouragement :  mere  perseverance  was  outvied  by 
natural  ability  and  dragged  its  leaden  weight  be- 
hind. He  knew  himself  incapable  of  shining  in  this 
company,  and  gave  up  a  losing  fight  the  more 
readily  because  the  half-term  brought  a  new  diver- 
sion, and  a  chance  to  coruscate. 

He  was  cast,  as  winner  of  the  reading  prize,  for 
the  Christmas  play.  He,  Sam  Branstone,  was  to 
act  Shylock  at  the  Conversazione,  whilst  Lance 
Travers  was  given  Bassanio  —  salt  on  the  still 
bleeding  wound  of  his  defeat.  Greek  Tragedy  in- 
terested Sam  no  more.  He  saw  Irving's  Shylock 
from  the  gallery  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  and,  for 
comparative  purposes,  Benson's.  He  haunted 
Cheetham  Hill,  observing  Jewish  "  types."  He 
came  to  the  first  rehearsal,  like  any  other  novice, 
knowing  every  line  of  his  part  —  and  had  painfully 


LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS  49 

to  unlearn  and  relearn  under  the  direction  of  the 
brisk  little  mathematics  master  who  took  the  play- 
in  hand. 

Anne  screened  her  pride  in  this  distinction. 
Play-acting  was,  in  any  case,  questionable,  too 
newly  come  to  respectable  estate  to  be  accepted 
unreservedly.  But,  in  secret,  she  determined  that 
she  would  be  one  of  Sam's  audience  and  Tom  an- 
other. 

Parents  were  invited  to  the  Conversazione  — 
that  was  what  conversaziones  were  for  —  but  Anne 
and  Tom  had  never  accepted  the  invitation  before. 
It  implied  evening  dress. 

She  decided  that  she  could  "  manage  "  with  her 
Sunday  dress  and  two  yards  of  lace;  but  Tom, 
too,  must  be  there,  and  Tom  must  not  shame  Sam. 
She  thought  she  saw  a  way. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Tom,  "  I  couldn't  do  it,  lass. 
I'd  never  dare." 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before  you 
became  Sam's  father,"  she  replied.  "  I'm  going  to 
see  him  and  I'll  none  go  alone.  You're  coming  with 
me.  I  reckon  Mr.  O'Rourke  will  be  in  to-night  as 
usual." 

"  Aye,"  said  Tom,  suspecting  nothing. 

One  basis  of  his  friendship  with  O'Rourke  was 
that  their  evenings  off  happened  to  coincide,  Tom's 
from  Victoria  Station  and  Terry's  from  the  old- 
fashioned  commercial  hotel  in  Mosley  Street,  where 
he  was  an  institution.  Terry  was  a  waiter,  but 
Tom  had  not  yet  seen  the  connection  between  his 
friend's  profession  and  the  Grammar  School  Con- 
versazione. He  was  never  very  bright. 

Terry  had  a  hard  head  and  a  professional  style, 


50 

rather  like  a  successful  doctor's  bed-side  manner, 
which  wheedled  more  tips  from  commercial  travel- 
lers than  they  gave  at  any  other  hotel  in  their 
rounds,  but  he  had  a  sunken  vein  of  poetic  super- 
stition and,  when  Anne  interrupted  them,  he  was 
explaining  to  Tom  that  he  tolerated  the  Royal  Hotel 
because  he  could  see  from  its  window  the  green  of 
the  grass  outside  the  Infirmary.  Manchester  was 
Manchester  because  it  lacked  grass.  The  "  good 
folk  "  couldn't  dance  on  granite  sets :  only  on  grass 
did  one  find  fairy-rings  and  only  where  grass 
abounded  were  people  blessed. 

"  You'll  not  be  wanting  your  dress-clothes  next 
Wednesday  night,  I  reckon,"  said  Anne,  breaking 
in  without  apology. 

"  Why,  no,  Mrs.  Branstone,"  he  said.  "  Wednes- 
day's the  night  when  I  dress  like  the  public.  I've 
gone  into  a  strange  hotel  and  been  mistaken  for  an 
ordinary  customer  on  a  Wednesday  night." 

"  Then  you'll  maybe  not  object  to  lending  Tom 
your  clothes  next  week.  I  want  him  to  be  mistaken 
for  a  swell." 

"  There's  a  shine  on  them,"  objected  Terry, 
"  that  you  can  see  your  face  in." 

"  Dress-clothes,"  pronounced  Anne,  "  are  dressy 
when  they  shine.  If  you'll  put  studs  and  a  clean 
shirt  in  with  them,  I'll  be  obliged,  and  I'll  send  the 
shirt  back  washed." 

"  But,  Anne "  protested  Tom. 

"  You  hold  your  hush,"  she  said.  "  It's  settled. 
Go  on  about  the  fairies,  Terry." 

Fairies  seemed  to  Anne  entirely  suitable  as  a  sub- 
ject of  conversation  for  those  children,  men. 

Terry  brought  the  clothes  himself  and  personally 


LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS  51 

assisted  at  Tom's  transformation  from  a  railway 
porter  into  a  "  swell."  His  tie,  at  any  rate,  was 
nicely  tied,  but  "  I  feel  the  awkwardest  fool  alive," 
said  Tom,  as  well  he  might,  with  clothes  which 
fitted  where  they  touched ;  Anne,  had  she  confessed 
her  inward  sinking,  must  have  admitted  that  she 
was  in  no  better  case  herself,  but  confession  was 
far  from  her:  she  had  to  be  brazen  for  two.  Yet 
even  Anne's  high  courage  failed  her  in  the  ladies' 
dressing-room :  she  emerged  so  humbled  by  the 
splendours  which  she  had  seen  unveiled  that,  at  a 
word  from  Tom,  she  would  have  turned  tail  and 
fled. 

But  Tom  had  found  countenance.  Mr.  Travers, 
meeting  him  on  the  stair,  had  taken  charge  of  him, 
and  now  added  Anne  to  his  convoy.  It  was  kindly 
tact  increased  to  the  power  of  heroism:  he  talked 
hard  and  sheltered  his  waifs  from  feeling  the  cu- 
rious glances  which,  even  in  that  mixed  company, 
were  directed  embarrassingly  at  them.  He  ignored 
a  quiet,  well-known  alderman,  wh.o  obviously 
wanted  to  speak  to  him.  He  shepherded  them  to 
their  places  in  the  Lecture  Theatre,  sat  with  them 
and  accomplished  the  incredible  feat  of  putting 
Tom  Branstone  at  his  ease  in  the  midst  of  the  tip- 
ping public. 

Travers  acquired  more  merit  that  night  than  by 
all  his  payments  of  Sam's  school-fees :  and  Sam  him- 
self did  nobly,  not  only  on  the  stage  whence  he 
acted  at  Anne  and  bowed  to  Anne,  but  afterwards 
when,  still  in  his  costume,  he  paraded  with  her, 
drank  coffee  with  her,  and  met  with  Shylockian 
hatred  any  eye  which  seemed  to  hint  that  he  had 
not  tremendous  reason  to  be  proud  of  his  little 


52  THE  MARBECK  INN 

mother.  And  what  he  did  for  her,  Lance  and  Mr. 
Travers  did  for  Tom. 

Undoubtedly,  a  huge  success :  a  night  of  nights, 
carved  on  the  tablets  of  memory  in  letters  of  gold : 
never,  not  by  so  much  as  a  dubious  hint,  to  be  as- 
sociated with  the  illness  of  Tom  Branstone.  That 
was,  of  course,  caused  by  overwork  at  Christmas 
at  the  station.  It  had  and  could  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  fact  that  Tom,  coming  in  ecstasy  from 
the  heated  school  into  the  cold  December  night, 
presently  threw  off  his  overcoat  and  danced  exult- 
ing on  the  pavement:  conduct  so  utterly  unprece- 
dented, so  wholly  un-Tom-like,  that  he  had  footed  it 
merrily  for  ten  minutes  before  Anne  recovered 
enough  command  of  him  to  put  an  end  to  the 
discreditable  performance.  Besides,  for  five  of 
the  ten  minutes,  she  had  danced  hand  in 
hand  with  him.  She,  too,  exulted,  but  neither 
of  them  ever  referred  to  their  pagan  capering 
again. 

Poor  Tom !  He  had  not  had  so  many  nights  of 
triumph  in  his  life  that  this  should  be  his  last,  but 
he  was  soon  to  start  upon  a  journey  from  which 
even  Anne's  imperious  will  was  powerless  to  call 
him  back.  She  helping  him,  he  struggled  hard 
against  pneumonia  and  made  a  better  fight  with 
death  than  he  had  ever  made  with  life,  but  his 
course  was  run  and  the  school  had  not  reopened 
after  the  holidays  when  Tom  Branstone  ceased  to 
fight.  It  seemed  that,  on  the  night  of  the  Conver- 
sazione, he  had  had  his  hour,  and 

"  men  must  endure 

Their  going  hence  even  as  their  coming  hither : 
Ripeness  is  all." 


LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS  53 

It  did  not  come  to  Sam  as  the  shattering  of  his 
world  —  only  the  death  of  Anne  could  have  done 
that  —  but  certainly  as  a  stunning  blow.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  he  had  come  intimately  close  to 
death  and  he  missed  death's  beauty  and  its  peace. 
He  saw  too  well  its  ugliness  and  the  detail  of  a 
burial.  It  hurt,  not  because  Tom  Branstone  had 
had  but  little  joy  in  life,  but  because  he  died  too 
soon  to  see  the  glory  of  his  son.  In  after  years, 
Sam  Branstone  would  have  liked  to  recall  how 
Tom's  death  softened  him,  how  he  melted  to  tears 
before  that  waxen  face  and  lovingly  bought  flowers 
to  put  inside  the  coffin. 

It  wouldn't  do.  It  didn't  fit  the  facts.  He 
knew  that,  honestly,  he  had  been  angry  with  his 
father  for  dying,  especially  for  dying  in  the  holi- 
days. It  spoiled  the  holidays  and  it  robbed  Sam 
of  the  day's  holiday  he  would  have  had  for  the 
funeral  had  Tom  had  the  gumption  to  die  in  term- 
time.  He  resented  his  father's  death  as  he  would 
have  resented  an  unjust  thrashing  from  him  —  if 
Tom  Branstone  ever  thrashed  anybody.  Tom  had 
died  prematurely,  while  he  was  still  useful  to  Sam. 
He  had  bilked  Sam,  and  Sam  was  angry. 

Not  only  had  Tom  died  too  soon  to  see  the  glory 
of  his  son,  but  his  son's  glory  was  seriously  jeopard- 
ized by  the  breadwinner's  death.  Sam  had,  in  his 
innermost  soul,  given  up  the  idea  of  Oxford ;  he 
was  not  apt  enough  at  classics,  but  he  was  far  from 
admitting  it  now.  It  was  Tom's  death,  and  that 
alone,  which  deprived  him  of  that  crown. 

Anne  felt  it  deeply.  She  had  loved  Tom  with 
something  like  mother-love  as  well  as  wife's.  If 
she  had  been  hard  with  him,  it  was  for  his  good, 


54  THE  MARBECK  INN 

and  he  as  well  as  she  had  known  that  her  hardness 
was  like  the  hardness  of  a  crab's  shell,  hiding  a 
tender  place  inside.  Now  that  he  was  dead  she 
could  hide  her  grief  as  she  had  hidden  her  love,  and 
went  about  her  business  soberly.  Soberly  she  drew 
her  money  from  the  Sick  and  Burial  Society  and 
soberly  she  spent  it  on  "  black "  for  Sam,  for 
George,  Madge  and  herself,  doing  those  things 
which  Tom  would  have  expected  to  be  done  to 
dignify  his  death,  but  adding  nothing  that  would 
make  his  funeral  a  neighbours'  raree-show. 

She  came  back  from  the  cemetery  with  dry  eyes 
and  soberly  presided  at  the  inevitable  meal  (where 
she  had  to  comfort  a  lachrymose  O'Rourke)  and, 
on  the  morrow,  soberly  set  out  to  visit  Mr.  Travers, 
and  to  tell  him  that,  of  course,  she  could  not  now 
keep  Sam  at  school.  It  was  little  that  Travers  was 
allowed  to  guess  from  this  stoic  that  this  was  the 
end  of  her  dream  for  Sam,  that  with  Tom's  death 
the  underpinnings  of  her  world  had  flopped.  And 
her  pride  stood  where  it  stood  five  years  ago:  no 
more  now  than  then  would  she  accept  from  Travers 
money  to  pay  expenses.  , 

She  shook  her  head  defiantly.  "The  lad  'ull 
have  to  work,"  she  said. 

Travers  knew  adamant  when  he  saw  it.  "  Then, 
at  least,  let  him  come  here  and  work  in  my  office." 

Anne  almost  glared.  "  I  want  a  fair  field  and  no 
favour.  He'll  have  to  start  as  office-boy,  with  the 
wages  of  an  office-boy." 

"  Oh,  hardly  that,  Mrs.  Branstone.  Remember, 
he  comes  to  me  from  the  Classical  Transitus." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  and  much  use  that  is  to  an 
estate  agent.  He  can't  add  up  a  row  of  figures." 


LAST  SCHOOL-DAYS  55 

She  had  no  delusions  about  the  practical  value  of  a 
public  school  education. 

"  I  think,  though,  that  we  must  let  it  count  for 
something,"  he  replied,  and  Anne,  compromising 
against  the  grain,  consented  to  let  it  count  for 
fifteen  shillings  a  week  "  until  we  see,"  added  Mr. 
Travers,  "how  he  shapes."  He  intended  to  see 
very  soon. 

Anne  nodded  grimly.  "  I'll  see  he  shapes,"  she 
said,  and  Sam,  silent  witness  of  this  pregnant  inter- 
view, was  hardly  surprised  by  Anne's  first  words  on 
reaching  home.  "  Get  out  those  old  arithmetic 
text-books  of  yours,"  she  said,  "  and  look  up  men- 
suration. I've  not  forgotten  it,  if  you  have." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  NEST-EGG 

TOM  BRANSTONE  had  drawn  a  wage  of  a  pound  a 
week,  and  tips  may  have  averaged  ten  shillings  but 
more  probably  did  not;  your  sixpenny  tipper  is  a 
rare  bird  in  Manchester. 

Yet  Anne  had  saved  steadily,  and  she  had  not 
allowed  a  life-long  habit  to  be  interrupted  by  a  little 
thing  like  the  necessity  of  providing  Sam  with 
Grammar  School  books  and  clothes.  I  do  not  say 
that  it  was  admirable  in  her,  but  merely  that  it  was 
heroic.  It  was  an  incredible  feat,  but  it  can  be 
done :  it  is  done  every  day  by  people  for  whom  the 
word  "  thrift "  has  meaning.  Perhaps  they  are 
often  unlovely  in  their  lives  or  perhaps  they  have 
the  robust  satisfaction  of  those  who  live  for  an 
idea :  opinion  has  always  differed  as  to  whether 
what  they  do  is  worth  doing,  and  modern  opinion 
inclines  strongly  to  the  belief  that  it  is  not.  Life 
to  these  iconoclasts  seems  more  important  than  the 
means  of  life. 

To  Anne  it  seemed  abundantly  worth  while,  and 
the  proof  was  here  now  when  she  found  that  the 
interest  on  her  savings  amounted  to  three  and  four- 
pence  weekly.  They  could  live  on  Sam's  earnings 
and  Anne's  "  means  "  without  pinching.  Her  fore- 
thought made  all  the  difference  now  between  too 
little  and  enough. 

"  It  was,  of  course,  only  to  Anne  that  this  seemed 


THE  NEST-EGG  57 

enough:  Sam  took  a  larger  view,  but  found  his 
vision  cramped  for  some  time  to  come  by  the  con- 
ditions he  met  with  in  Mr.  Travers'  office.  Cer- 
tainly that  generous  soul  did  not  mean  to  humiliate 
Sam;  he  did  not  mean  Sam  to  begin  as  office-boy; 
but,  whatever  his  intentions,  the  clerks  in  his  office 
defeated  them.  Sam  was  a  newcomer,  the  latest 
arrival,  in  a  minority  of  one  against  the  old  inhabi- 
tants; was  there,  moreover,  obviously  to  do  as  he 
was  told.  He  was  told  to  sweep  the  floor  in  the 
morning,  to  copy  letters  and  to  lick  stamps.  He 
did  these  things  rebelliously,  bitter  at  heart  that 
such  menial  service  should  be  required  of  an  ex- 
member  of  the  Classical  Transitus,  certain  that 
there  was  some  mistake,  that  he  had  only  to  catch 
Mr.  Travers'  eye  when  he  was  so  shamefully  occu- 
pied for  that  gentleman  to  take  instant  and  drastic 
measures  with  the  clerks  who  misemployed  him. 

Mr.  Travers'  eye,  even  though  caught  at  what 
Sam  thought  an  opportune  moment,  while  Sam 
copied  letters,  unexpectedly  failed  to  disapprove. 
He  seemed  less  preoccupied  with  Sam's  affairs  than 
Sam  was.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  took  a  long  dis- 
tance view  of  Sam,  and  took  it,  unfortunately, 
rather  muggily.  Travers  had  the  defect  of  his  qual- 
ity. A  generous  man,  he  was  generous  in  the  worst 
way  to  himself,  and  Sam  soon  learnt  the  meaning 
of  a  euphemism,  current  in  the  office,  "  Mr.  Travers 
is  attending  a  property  auction."  Property  auc- 
tions are,  it  is  true,  usually  held  on  licensed  prem- 
ises, and  whether  Mr.  Travers  was  or  was  not  at- 
tending an  auction  he  was  certainly  on  licensed 
premises  more  often  than  was  good  for  either  his 
business  or  himself. 


58  THE  MARBECK  INN 

And  it  was  bad  for  Sam,  not  because  it  left  him 
to  find  his  own  feet  in  the  office  and  to  fight  un- 
backed with  his  superiors  (wherein,  indeed,  it  was 
good),  but  because  he  had  figured  Travers  from  afar 
as  a  princely  gentleman,  without  reproach,  and  the 
discovery  of  his  failing  took  Sam  a  long  way  on 
the  road  to  cynicism.  In  youth  one's  faith  dies 
hard,  and,  being  dead,  turns  rapidly  corrupt. 

The  business  was  an  excellent  one,  rotting  slowly 
from  the  top,  and  Sam  found  the  office  a  notable 
place  in  which  to  pick  up  knowledge  of  the  world; 
especially,  since  he  lacked  good  direction,  of  the 
shadier  ways  of  the  world.  He  felt  that  he  had 
declined  in  status:  his  school-friends,  there  his 
equals,  had  gone  either  to  the  Universities  or,  with 
influence  behind  them,  to  the  professions.  If  they 
went  to  business,  it  was  as  their  fathers'  sons. 
They  were  not  scratch  men,  and  Sain  felt  that  he 
was  starting  at  the  scratch-line. 

Travers  had  really  no  intentions  that  Sam  should 
feel  himself  misprized.  The  boy  had  to  learn  the 
business,  and  the  way  to  understanding  lay  from 
the  bottom  upwards.  But  Sam  contrasted  himself 
bitterly  with  Lance,  first  at  school  and  then  at  Cam- 
bridge. In  that,  indeed,  he  found  a  minimum  of 
consolation.  It  wasn't  rational,  but  to  Anne  and 
consequently  to  Sam,  university  had  meant  Oxford, 
and  he  won  a  hardy  solace  from  the  thought  that 
Lance  was,  after  all,  "  only  "  at  Cambridge. 

Meantime,  he  grew  in  knowledge  of  his  world, 
and  education  came  to  Sam,  not  in  the  cloistered 
freedom  of  the  Isis,  but  where,  in  Manchester,  he 
went  collecting  rents :  in  country  courts  where  hard 
laws  operated  hardly :  and  in  the  office,  where  men 


THE  NEST-EGG  59 

did  not  greet  each  other  with  a  friendly  smile,  but 
gave  instead  the  "  competition  glare."  It  was  not 
a  kindly  school  in  wThich  he  spent  the  developing 
years,  but  one  where  it  was  taught  that  self's  the 
man,  and  magnanimity  is  a  mistake.  "  Get  on  or 
get  out,"  and  Sam  got  on  with  a  sort  of  choleric 
zeal  which  gave  no  quarter  and  expected  none. 

But  he  did  not  get  on  fast  enough  to  please  him- 
self. He  had,  he  thought,  stepped  down  from  the 
days  of  the  Grammar  School  where  he  belonged 
with  the  caste  that  rules  or,  at  any  rate,  adminis- 
ters, the  caste  that  sits  on  velvet  and  overlooks  the 
mob.  Now  he  was  in  the  cockpit,  with  the  mob 
that  struggles  to  ascend,  and,  to  Sam,  a  wage  of 
thirty  shillings  a  week  at  the  age  of  twenty  was  a 
derisory  ascension.  Anne  thought  it  satisfying, 
and  it  was  her  contentment  with  his  rate  of  prog- 
ress which  first  made  him  begin  to  think  of  her  as, 
after  all,  a  limited  person.  You  didn't  bribe  Sam 
Branstone  to  be  meekly  satisfied  with  thirty  shil- 
lings a  wreek. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  he  said  to  the  only  man  in  the 
office  with  whom  he  was  in  the  least  confidential, 
"  that  you  don't  begin  to  get  on  till  you've  got  a 
bit  of  capital  together.  Money  breeds  money." 

His  friend  suggested  betting  as  a  means  to  af- 
fluence, and  offered  to  tell  him  of  a  dead  certainty. 

Sam  assumed  his  cunningest  air  of  a  superman 
of  the  world.  "  The  best  row  of  houses  where  I  go 
for  the  rents,"  he  said,  "  belongs  to  Jack  Elsworth, 
the  bookie.  I  don't  see  why  I  should  help  him  to 
buy  another  house." 

"  Bookies  don't  always  win,"  said  the  optimist. 

"  No,"  said  Sam.     "  It's  possible  to  make  money 


60  THE  MARBECK  INN 

out  of  betting  and  it's  possible  to  get  a  baby  by  a 
harlot,  but  that  isn't  what  the  harlot's  for,  and  it 
isn't  what  the  bookie's  for/' 

At  this  time,  harlots  were  the  pegs  on  which  Sam 
hung  his  wit.  He  had  no  other  use  for  them,  but 
had  discovered  that  a  coarse  turn  of  phrase  was  an 
asset  in  his  world  and  therefore  wielded  it.  But 
the  effect  of  this  little  conversation  was  to  crystal- 
lize his  aim.  He  wanted  that  "  bit  of  capital " 
badly,  and  did  not  intend  that,  if  opportunity  pre- 
sented, a  nice  regard  for  scruple  should  hold  him 
back  from  taking  anything  the  gods  might  send. 
He  had  no  ultimate  design,  but  fortune  came  to  the 
fortunate  and  money  to  the  moneyed,  so  that  the 
first  move  was,  obviously,  to  get  money.  He 
wanted  a  jumping-off  place ;  then  he  would  soar. 

Opportunity  walked  into  the  office  in  the  person 
of  Joseph  of  Arimathea  Minnifie.  That  was  his 
full  baptismal  name:  analogous  with  the  styles  of 
certain  limited  companies,  such  as  John  Smith  (of 
Newcastle)  Limited,  to  distinguish  that  Smith 
from  other  Smiths.  Minnifie's  mother  had  ex- 
plained to  the  parson  that  she  was  a  New  Testa- 
ment woman.  To  her  intimates  she  had  put  it  that 
she  chose  the  name  Joseph  because  she  liked  it,  but 
she  also  liked  a  man  to  be  a  man.  It  was  deduced 
that  she  supposed  the  third  Joseph  in  the  Bible 
would  have  acted  differently  from  the  first  in  the 
affair  of  Potiphar's  wife. 

Sam's  accent  had  degenerated  since  the  days  of 
Shylock  and  the  reading  prize.  It  had  kept  bad 
company,  and  might  be  known  by  the  company  it 
kept  to-day  rather  than  by  that  which  it  used  to 
keep  at  school ;  but  he  could  still,  without  too  great 


THE  NEST-EGG  61 

an  effort,  assume  a  well-bred  speech  and  was  often 
sent  with  a  prospective  buyer  to  show  off  any 
likely  houses  on  Mr.  Travers'  list.  Because  it  was 
usual  for  him  to  go  on  such  errands,  and  not  be- 
cause anyone  supposed  that  niceties  of  speech  could 
or  would  have  any  effect  on  Mr.  Minnifle,  he  was 
sent  with  him  in  a  cab  to  tour  the  suburbs  where 
Travers  had  property  in  charge. 

A  coarse  accent  was  not  likely  to  offend  Joseph 
Minnifie,  who  a  fortnight  earlier  had  been  a  market 
porter  at  Shude  Hill,  but  had  now  come  into  money, 
well  invested  in  the  best  Brewery  securities,  from 
his  uncle,  a  publican.  Minnifie  had  sold  out  some 
of  the  shares  because  he  could  now  satisfy  a  long 
ambition  and  live  in  his  own  house.  He  proposed, 
he  told  Mr.  Travers,  to  retire  to  the  country. 

"  The  country?  "  asked  Travers,  whose  practice 
was  suburban. 

"  Well,"  said  Minnifie,  "  summat  quiet  and 
homely.  I'd  like  a  change  from  Rochdale  Koad. 
I  thought,"  he  went  on  rather  shyly,  "  of  Whalley 
Range.  It's  a  good  neighbourhood." 

Travers  refrained  from  pointing  out  that 
Whalley  Range  was  not  usually  regarded  as  the 
country,  but  was,  in  fact,  of  the  inner  ring  of  sub- 
urbs, a  penny  tram  fare  from  the  centre  of  Man- 
chester. "  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Minnifie,"  he  said.  "  I 
think  I  can  satisfy  you  in  Whalley  Range.  I 
have  several  available  houses  on  my  books  in  that 
district." 

"  I'll  pay  three  hundred  pound  for  what  I  like," 
said  Minnifie,  quite  fiercely.  "  I've  got  it  in  my 
pocket  now."  He  was  fierce  because  he  was  not 
yet  quite  sure  that  his  legacy  was  not  phantom 


62  THE  MARBECK  INN 

gold,  and  he  pulled  out  a  bundle  of  notes  as  much 
to  assure  himself  that  they  were  still  where  he  had 
put  them  as  with  the  idea  of  proving  his  good  faith 
to  Travers. 

Travers  concealed  a  smile.  After  all,  commis- 
sion on  three  hundred  pounds  is  not  to  be  sneezed 
at,  but  neither  was  this  the  sort  of  client  for  whom 
Travers  disturbed  his  habits.  "  I  have  myself,"  he 
said,  "  a  large  property  auction  to  attend  in  the 
city,  but  Mr.  Branstone  will  go  with  you  to  inspect 
the  houses."  He  smiled  kindly  on  Sam,  and  added, 
lest  Minnifie  should  think  his  affair,  so  important 
to  him,  underrated  by  the  agent :  "  Mr.  Branstone 
is  my  confidential  man.  When  Mr.  Branstone  tells 
you  anything  about  the  houses  you  are  going  to  see, 
it  is  as  if  I  spoke  myself." 

"  I  see,"  said  Minnifie.  "  He's  your  foreman,  and 
you  needn't  tell  me  you'll  back  him  up.  I  know 
foremen." 

"  Well,  his  word  is  certainly  as  good  as  mine.  I 
leave  you  in  safe  hands,  Mr.  Minnifie."  And 
Travers  went  out  to  attend  his  first  auction  of  the 
day,  which  usually  happened  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

Sam  and  the  client  took  a  cab  to  Whalley  Range, 
where  Minnifie  inspected  several  houses  which  were 
to  be  had  at  about  his  price.  But  he  was  hard  to 
satisfy,  and,  what  was  worse,  apparently  unable  to 
define  his  reasons  for  dissatisfaction.  As  Sam 
praised  this  and  that  about  a  house,  Minnifie  ad- 
mitted that  such  things  were  praiseworthy,  but  he 
would,  please,  see  another  house.  Sam  was  a  little 
piqued  and  tried  his  best  to  be  genial,  suspecting 
that  Minnifie  resented  being  fobbed  off  with  a 


THE  NEST-EGG  63 

"  foreman  " ;  and  Sam's  best  was  very  good,  so  that 
presently  the  ice  was  thawed. 

Minnifie  stood  at  the  bow-window  of  a  dining- 
room  and  looked  up  and  down  the  street.  It  was 
empty  save  for  a  tradesman's  boy.  From  some- 
where round  the  corner  came  the  diminished  rattle 
of  a  milk-cart.  Minnifie  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  It's  quiet,"  he  said.  "  See  that  road.  Nothing 
stirring.  What  is  there  for  the  missus  to  look  at 
when  she  sits  in  the  window?  " 

"  It's  morning,"  said  Sam.  "  Things  will  be 
brisker  in  the  afternoon."  But  his  tone  lacked 
conviction,  and  he  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion to  add :  "  There's  a  cat  crossing  the  road 
now." 

"  Come  out,"  said  Minnifie.  "  This  'ull  none 
do,"  and  when  they  stood  upon  the  door-step  he 
sniffed  the  air  of  Whalley  Range  with  disapproval. 
"  I  don't  like  it  and  it's  no  use  pretending  that  I 
do.  It's  got  a  cold  smell  to  me.  It  isn't  homely." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Sam,  diagnosing 
the  trouble.  "  Wait  a  bit."  He  gave  the  cabman 
an  address  and  was  careful  to  leave  the  window 
open.  They  came  to  other  streets  where  the  scent 
of  yesterday's  fried  fish  still  lingered  in  the  air  and 
the  nose  of  Mr.  Minnifie  inhaled  it  greedily. 
"  This  is  better,"  he  pronounced. 

They  had  come  to  Greenheys,  which,  when  De 
Quincey's  father  built  a  country  house  there  in 
1791,  was  "  separated  from  the  last  outskirts  of 
Manchester  by  an  entire  mile."  It  is  by  no  means 
separated  now,  and  good  houses  of  the  mid-Victor- 
ian period  are  to  be  had  cheaply  because  good  ten- 
ants dislike  bad  neighbours.  Travers  had  one  of 


64  THE  MARBECK  INN 

these  survivals  from  an  urbane  past  on  his  books 
and  Sam  hugged  himself  for  thinking  of  it  now: 
that  house  had  proved  itself  the  whitest  of  white 
elephants. 

Mr.  Minnifie,  exhilarated  by  the  spicy  smells  of 
Greenheys,  was  no  longer  a  timid  excursionist  look- 
ing only  where  his  guide  bade  him,  but  a  house 
hunter  hot  upon  the  trail,  with  eyes  that  spied  on 
each  side  of  their  route. 

«  Ah !  "  he  called  suddenly.     "  Stop !  " 

The  cabman  stopped.  "  But  we're  not  there," 
said  Sam,  rather  blankly. 

"  I  think  we  are,"  said  Minnifie,  and  got  out  of 
the  cab. 

Sam  followed,  in  that  leaden  state  of  mind  which 
often  precedes  inspiration.  What  had  attracted 
Minnifie  was  a  semi-detached  house  at  a  corner, 
which  the  trams  passed.  Opposite  were  shops,  and 
there  was  a  lively  stir  in  the  street.  Certainly, 
Mrs.  Minnifie  would  have  something  to  see  here 
when  she  looked  out  of  the  window. 

Sam  knew  that  pair  of  houses,  and  what  he  knew 
made  him  fear  that  he  would  not,  this  time,  rid 
Mr.  Travers  of  the  white  elephant  on  his  books. 
They  were  good  houses  enough,  but  the  people  wrho 
had  furniture  to  fill  them  were  not  the  sort  of 
people  who  welcomed  shops  opposite  their  win- 
dows and  trams  past  their  gate,  so  that  both  had 
been  long  empty.  Now,  however,  they  were  for 
sale,  under  a  will,  and  a  quick  sale  was  wanted  that 
the  estate  might  be  wound  up.  They  would  cer- 
tainly go  cheaply  on  that  account,  and  the  more  so 
since  two  attempted  auctions  had  proved  abortive. 
There  had  been  no  offers. 


THE  NEST-EGG  65 

And  here  was  Mr.  Minnifie  plainly  delighted,  and 
those  houses  not  in  Travers'  charge,  but  in  that  of 
a  rival  agency !  Sam  felt  depressed,  then  as  dawn 
follows  darkness,  he  thought  of  what  Travers  had 
said,  that  Sam's  word  was  as  good  as  his  own.  It 
was  going  to  be,  and  Mr.  Minnifie's  money  as  good 
in  Sam's  hands  as  in  those  of  Calverts',  the  legiti- 
mate agents  for  this  pair  of  houses.  He  stepped 
out  briskly  now,  the  ardent  salesman. 

"  One  moment,  Mr.  Minnifie.  I  haven't  the  key 
of  this  house  with  me,  but  it  is  at  the  shop  opposite. 
I  will  get  it."  His  quick  eye  had  read  so  much  on 
Calverts'  notice  board,  but  by  the  time  he  returned, 
Minnifie  had  also  seen  that  rival  name  on  the  board 
and  mentioned  the  fact. 

"  I  know,"  said  Sam.  "  The  board  has  not  been 
altered,  but  this  property  is  in  my  hands  now." 

Which  was  true. 

The  house  enchanted  Minnifie,  who  had  made  up 
his  mind  in  advance  to  be  enchanted.  And,  of 
course,  rooms  may  be  in  need  of  decoration,  but 
good  proportions  tell,  even  on  a  Mr.  Minnifie.  This 
house  was  very  different  from  the  jerry-built  villas 
of  Whalley  Range. 

"What's  price?"  he  asked. 

"  Three  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds,"  said  Sam. 

"  I  said  three  hundred  and  I'll  none  budge." 

"  If  you  will  come  to  the  office  at  six,  I  shall  be 
able  to  tell  you,"  said  Sam,  naming  a  queer  hour, 
seeing  that  the  office  closed  at  half-past  five. 

"  All  right,"  said  Minnifie.  "  It's  a  firm  offer  at 
three  hundred,  and  I'm  a  man  of  my  word." 

Sam  devoutly  hoped  so.  He  was  taking  a  con- 
siderable gamble  on  it.  They  parted,  and  Sam,  as 


66  THE  MARBECK  INN 

usual,  went  home  for  lunch,  but,  not  as  usual,  re- 
turned with  his  cheque-book  in  his  pocket.  His  ac- 
cumulated savings  were  five  pounds,  but  he  pos- 
sessed a  cheque-book.  He  waited  rather  carefully 
until  the  banks  had  closed,  then  he  walked  into 
Calverts'  offices  and  offered  them  two  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  for  the  pair  of  semi-detached  houses 
in  Greenheys.  They  accepted  two  hundred  and 
seventy-five;  and  Sam  drew  a  cheque  for  that 
amount,  and  received  the  title-deeds  in  exchange. 
Then  he  palpitated,  but  it  was,  in  any  case,  safely 
after  banking  hours.  Calverts  could  not  present 
his  cheque  that  day. 

He  was  busy  at  five-thirty,  when  the  clerks  left, 
and  proposed  to  work  late  for  a  while,  "  to  clear 
things  up,"  he  said.  At  six  Minnifie  arrived,  true 
to  his  word,  and  Sam  could  have  kissed  him.  He 
had  spent  the  longest  half-hour  of  his  life.  He 
took  Minnifie  by  the  private  door  into  Travers'  of- 
fice, so  that  he  should  not  see  the  empty  general 
office,  and  put  him  in  the  client's  chair,  himself 
usurping  Travers'  seat. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Minnifie,"  he  said,  "  suppose  I  told 
you  that  the  price  is  still  three  fifteen,  what  would 
you  say?  " 

"  I'd  say  '  Good-day,'  "  and  Minnifie  showed  that 
he  meant  it  by  rising  to  his  feet.  Sam  went  on 
hurriedly. 

"  Ah !  Then  it's  as  well  that  I've  succeeded.  It 
has  been  an  infinitude  of  trouble " 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Minnifie,  "  that  you're  here  to 
take  trouble.  Leastways,  if  it's  easy  money  in  your 
line,  it's  the  only  line  that's  made  that  way." 

"  Oh,  we  have  our  troubles,  like  everybody  else. 


THE  NEST-EGG  67 

This  document,"  he  went  on,  "  conveys  the  house  to 
you.  The  price  is  three  hundred  pounds." 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  said  Mr.  Minnifie,  producing 
his  notes,  "  count  'em."  Sam  counted  feverishly, 
then  made  out  a  receipt.  Nothing  short  of  mur- 
der would  have  induced  him  to  part  with  that 
money  now. 

"  If  you  will  meet  me  to-morrow  at  twelve  at  that 
address  —  a  lawyer's  —  we  will  have  the  convey- 
ance put  in  proper  form." 

"  I've  seen  a  bit  of  lawyers  lately  over  this  brass 
of  mine,"  said  Minnifie,  "  and  I  don't  like  'em. 
They  eat  money." 

"  But  in  this  case,"  said  Sam  magnanimously, 
"  I  pay  the  lawyer's  fees." 

"  Then  I'll  be  there,"  said  Minnifie. 

Sam  was  waiting  next  day  for  the  doors  of  his 
bank  to  open,  and  breathed  colossal  relief  when  his 
three  hundred  pounds  were  safely  in  to  meet  his 
cheque.  He  had  a  net  profit  of  some  twenty 
pounds,  after  settling  for  the  conveyancing,  and 
he  had  a  house  to  sell.  Not  long  afterwards,  he 
sold  it  for  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds. 

The  fact  that  one  of  the  pair  had  been  thought 
desirable  by  somebody  caused  somebody  else  to 
desire  the  other :  and  Sam  could  only  hope  that  the 
new  neighbours  would  not  compare  notes.  If  they 
did,  it  did  not  matter;  he  had  only  obeyed  the 
axiom  of  commerce,  "  Buy  cheap,  sell  dear,"  and  it 
was  not  his  fault  that  in  the  one  case  he  had  had 
to  sell  less  dearly  than  in  the  other. 

His  bank  credit  was  two  hundred  pounds. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  FLEDGLING   CAPITALIST 

IN  Sam's  opinion,  nobody  had  suffered.  Mr. 
Travers  lost  nothing,  because  the  corner  house  had 
conquered  Minnifie  at  sight,  and  he  would  not  in 
any  case  have  bought  the  white  elephant  which 
Travers  had  for  sale.  Calverts  had  got  as  much  as 
they  expected  to  get  for  the  houses,  or  they  would 
not  have  sold,  while  the  beneficiary  under  the  late 
owner's  will  was  a  charity,  and  Sam  hoped  that 
charity  was  charitable  enough  not  to  look  a  gift- 
horse  in  the  mouth :  if  it  wasn't,  it  ought  to  be.  As 
to  the  purchasers,  who  had  certainly  paid  more  for 
the  property  than  they  need  have  done,  that  was 
what  purchasers  wrere  for.  Why  did  smart  busi- 
ness men  exist  if  not  to  exploit  purchasers? 

All  this  was  highly  comforting,  but  to  confess  the 
need  for  comfort  was  to  admit  to  disquiet,  and  he 
found  that  it  was  one  thing  to  argue  in  this  strain 
with  his  conscience,  and  another  to  boast  to  Anne 
of  his  achievement.  Women  don't  understand  busi- 
ness, and  he  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  the  ethics 
of  the  transaction  would  not  satisfy  Anne.  He 
decided  that  he  had  better  not  tell  her,  that  he 
must  resist  his  impulse  of  surprising  her  with  the 
gift  of  a  seal-skin  coat,  and  remained  a  capitalist 
under  the  rose.  There  was  no  hurry,  and  perhaps 
his  next  stroke,  when  it  came,  would  be  under 


THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST  69 

conditions  that  would  bear  the  limelight  of  her 
scrutiny. 

But  repression  was  not  all.  Justify  himself  as 
he  would,  chuckle  over  his  gains  as  he  did,  the  mat- 
ter searched  him  deeply  and  reacted  sharply  in  two 
ways,  of  which  the  first  began  as  that  old  expedient 
of  sinners,  conscience-money.  There  are  defaulters 
who  find  absolution  for  themselves  by  sending 
notes,  under  initials,  to  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, and  by  having  them  acknowledged  with 
impressiveness  in  the  personal  columns  of  the 
Times.  That  was  not  Sam's  way:  he  did  not  do 
good  deeds  by  stealth,  and  his  conscience-money 
did  not  go  out  of  the  family.  He  used  it  philan- 
thropically,  but  it  was  philanthropy  and  ten  per 
cent,  to  begin  with,  and  in  the  end  it  was  very  much 
more  than  ten  per  cent.  It  was  the  Chappie  Bill- 
Posting  and  Window-Cleaning  Company. 

He  thought  that  he  could,  without  exciting 
Anne's  suspicions,  tell  her  that  his  savings  had 
reached  ten  pounds,  and  proposed  to  spend  that 
sum  for  the  benefit  of  George  Chappie. 

Inspired,  perhaps,  by  his  household  gods,  George 
was  facing  life  bravely,  and  won  a  minor  place  in 
Anne's  good  graces  when  he  and  Madge  produced 
a  firstborn  son,  who  had  the  remarkable  quality 
of  looking  exactly  like  the  infant  Samuel,  whose 
name  he  bore.  But  George  had  not,  in  her  opinion, 
deserved  Sam's  generosity  to  this  extent. 

"  You're  over-good  to  them,"  she  said.  "  You've 
made  a  man  and  woman  of  a  pair  of  wastrels,  and 
I'd  let  them  alone  to  make  their  own  way  now." 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  be  much  of  a  way?  "  asked 
Sam.  "  They're  the  sort  that  need  help." 


70  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Aye,"  she  said,  "  they'll  lean  on  you  all  right. 
They're  good  at  leaning." 

"  Well,"  said  Sam,  drawing  himself  up.  "  Let 
them  lean." 

"  Sam,"  said  Anne,  "  I'm  not  fond,  but  if  I  told 
you  what  I  think  of  you  for  this,  you'd  have  the 
right  to  call  me  fond  and  foolish.  I  like  you  very 
well,  my  son.  You're  the  strong  man  helping  and 
supporting  the  weak." 

She  finished  suddenly  and  a  thought  shame- 
facedly. She  had  praised  him  openly  and  consid- 
ered it  a  weakness  in  her.  Sam  put  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  It  was  not  demonstrative,  but  his  ges- 
ture was  full  of  understanding,  and  Anne  turned 
rapidly  away,  shaking  him  off  almost  with  rude- 
ness, taking  very  earnestly  to  her  business  of  clear- 
ing away  their  tea-things. 

Sam  watched  appreciatively  through  the  corner 
of  his  eye.  He  relished  praise  from  Anne,  even 
when,  as  now,  it  was  not  strictly  merited.  The 
strong  in  Sam's  philosophy  did  not  support  the 
weak,  but  the  weak  the  strong.  He  was  confirmed 
in  his  belief  that  women  could  not  understand  busi- 
ness. This,  however,  he  reminded  himself,  was  not 
pure  business,  it  was  conscience-money,  which 
ought  not  to  be  unconscionably  reproductive:  so 
he  bought  George  a  hand-cart,  ladder,  bucket  and 
leathers,  and  exacted  from  him  not  more  than  ten 
per  cent,  on  his  capital  expenditure.  In  Travers' 
business  Sam  found  opportunities  of  pushing 
George.  A  client  took  a  house,  and  Sam  would 
suggest  with  a  nicely  casual  air  that  the  windows 
needed  cleaning.  He  would,  to  save  the  client 
trouble,  then  offer  to  send  a  man  round,  so  that 


THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST  71 

George's  connection  waxed,  and  he  prospered  to  the 
tune  of  two  amazing  pounds  a  week,  till  the  restless 
Sam  began  to  widen  his  view  of  George's  potentiali- 
ties. 

His  eye  for  the  main  chance  had  always  a  useful 
squint  which  could  see  money  round  the  corner  as 
well  as  in  the  straight  high  road,  and  he  thought 
that  George,  with  his  outfit  of  ladders,  could  see 
his  talent  for  height  in  other  ways  than  window- 
cleaning.  There  was,  for  example,  bill-posting,  a 
trade  whose  mysteries  Sam  deemed  it  not  beyond 
George's  capabilities  to  learn. 

The  thing  grew  by  degrees,  from  the  first  build- 
er's hoarding  which  Sam  rented  venturously  for 
advertising  space,  to  a  comfortable'  little  business 
that  ran  itself  by  its  own  momentum  long  after  he 
tired  of  its  comparative  insignificance.  With 
George,  the  start  was  all :  he  could  always  plod 
where  Sam  had  led,  and  as  Sam  had  time  to  set 
the  ball  rolling,  and  money  enough  to  spoon-feed 
the  infant  business  with  capital,  George  kept  the 
thing  in  being  by  careful,  steady  management.  He 
hadn't  boasted  when  he  told  Anne  he  was  steady. 

Of  course,  Sam  was  impatient  and  deplored  his 
active  partner's  inactivity.  He  grew  tired  of  the 
gradual  increase,  but,  all  the  same,  the  business 
was  unquestionably  successful,  and  he  relished 
hugely  his  sense  of  being  the  power  behind  the 
throne,  if  only  behind  a  small,  conservative,  so 
lamentably  unambitious  throne.  Sam  also  was 
among  the  king-makers. 

The  other,  greater  sequel  to  his  reaction  led  to 
more  pyrotechnical  results,  and  eventually  to  Sam's 
launch  on  his  career.  Nothing  happened  at  first, 


72 

and  indeed  for  so  long  that  he  was  feeling  himself 
between  the  devil  of  the  estate  office  and  the  deep 
sea  of  George's  persistent  carefulness.  The  Chap- 
pie Bill-Posting  Company  was  good  enough  for 
George,  but  not  for  Sam :  there  were  too  many  com- 
petitors with  too  great  resources,  while  the  estate 
office  routine  bored  him,  and  opportunities  for 
piratical  enterprise  did  not  recur. 

He  felt,  at  twenty-four  years  of  age,  and  at  two 
pounds  ten  a  week,  that  he  was  growing  old  in 
service,  he  who  was  not  meant  to  serve  but  to  be 
served. 

But  then  —  desolating  thought  —  was  he  meant 
to  be  served?  Had  he  lost,  or  was  he,  at  any  rate, 
not  losing  the  accent  of  speech  and  mind  of  those 
who  are  served?  He  knew  that  his  accent  had 
touched  pitch  and  been  defiled :  those  bawdy  stories 
of  his  were  told  in  the  tongue  of  his  hearers,  and 
there  had  been  clients  lately  who  had  spoken  to 
him,  when  inspecting  property,  as  if  he  were  a 
clerk,  and  not  a  pleasant,  gentlemanly  youth  of  ob- 
vious superiority  to  his  present,  no  doubt  tempo- 
rary, job.  He  had  a  sudden  fear  that  the  job  might 
not  be  temporary  after  all,  and  there  followed  a 
time  when  he  was  wholly  bent  on  self -improvement, 
when  he  abjured  the  narrow  way  of  professional 
text-books  and  read  that  he  might  become  well- 
read,  that  he  might  bandy  allusions  with  those  old 
school-fellows  of  his  who  had  gone  to  Universities, 
that  he  might,  if  he  could  not  hope  to  shine,  at 
least  be  not  outshone. 

It  wasn't  pour  le  ~bon  motif,  and  he  did  not  even 
pretend  to  like  the  greater  part  of  what  he  read. 
He  crammed  against  the  grain,  and  a  growing  row 


THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST  73 

of  the  "  World's  Classics  "  figured  on  his  shelf  as 
trophies  of  his  perseverance.  Industriously  he 
rubbed  away  the  rust  which  had  accumulated  on 
his  mind  since  it  took  its  not  very  brilliant  polish 
of  the  Grammar  School.  He  took  down  the  dust- 
stained  Gibbon  he  had  won  for  reading,  and 
ploughed  heroically  through  it. 

That  reminded  him  of  another  chink  in  his 
armour.  A  man  of  the  world  must  have  the  knack 
of  speaking  to  the  world,  and  Sam  became  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Concentrics.  As  Anne  once  told  him,  he 
had  the  gift  of  the  gab,  but,  except  for  his  present 
fluent  recommendations  of  houses  to  prospective 
tenants,  it  was  a  talent  he  had  buried.  Now,  how- 
ever, he  proposed  to  dig  it  up  and  did  it  in  (he 
thought)  the  ambitious  surroundings  of  the  Con- 
centrics, who  were  indeed  as  mixed  a  company  as 
he  could  have  found  anywhere,  and  on  that  account 
the  better  for  his  purpose. 

The  common  centre  which  was  supposed  to  hold 
the  Concentrics  together  was  a  love  of  literature, 
but  they  tended  to  drop  literature  for  politics  on 
the  slightest  pretext.  There  were  literary  en- 
thusiasts amongst  them,  but  it  rarely  happened  that 
one  man's  enthusiasm  coincided  with  another's. 
It  did  less  than  coincide.  A  member  would  read  a 
laborious  paper  on  some  man  of  letters,  and  the 
subsequent  discussion  would  be  conducted  by  men 
who  began  their  intelligent  speeches  by  admitting 
that  they  had  not  read  a  word  of,  say,  Henry  James 
or  Lafcadio  Hearn,  but  that  their  opinion  was 
nevertheless  so  and  so.  Whereas,  of  course,  no- 
body ever  confessed  to  ignorance  of  politics.  Pol- 
itics is  like  law,  only  more  so.  One  is  presumed  by 


74  THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  law  to  know  the  law,  which  is  highly  presump- 
tuous of  the  law,  because  not  even  the  lawyers  know 
the  law,  and  they  must  often  go  to  judges,  at  their 
client's  expense,  to  find  out  what  the  law  is:  and 
the  "  more  so,"  as  applied  to  politics,  is  that  while 
laymen  hesitate  to  argue  a  point  of  law,  and  go  to 
an  expert,  they  never  hesitate  to  argue  a  point  of 
politics,  and  are  the  expert. 

Political  discussions  amongst  the  Concentrics 
were  real  and  passionate,  literary  discussions  un- 
real and  frigid ;  and  as  "  social  reform  "  became  a 
favourite  shibboleth  about  this  time,  literature 
took  a  back  seat  in  favour  of  subjects  about  which 
men  could  grow  emotional  and  their  oratory  rhe- 
torical. It  was  all  one  to  Sam,  who  was  here  to 
speak,  and  did  his  reading  at  home. 

He  spoke  often,  so  that  he  soon  improved,  and 
he  practised  the  literary  allusiveness  which  was  the 
purpose  of  his  reading  to  such  effect  that  he  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  the  chairman,  who  was  the 
Kev.  Peter  Struggles. 

It  is  not,  strictly,  fair  to  say  that  a  man  is  handi- 
capped through  life  by  a  name  like  Struggles,  be- 
cause the  legal  process  by  which  one  can  change  an 
undesirable  name  is  inexpensive,  but  Peter  had 
never  thought  of  such  a  move,  and  wore  his  handi- 
cap without  being  aware  of  it.  In  any  case,  he 
failed  in  life.  He  had  a  round  face,  red  hair,  side- 
whiskers  :  took  snuff  and  messed  his  coat :  was  per- 
fectly futile  in  practical  affairs  and  absolutely  "  a 
dear."  His  scholarship  was  not  profound,  but  he 
loved  letters  genuinely.  He  had  failed  steadily  for 
thirty  years  to  run  a  private  school  for  boys  in  a 
suburb  which  was  degenerating  to  industrialism, 


THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST  75 

and  late  in  life  had  taken  orders,  quite  sincerely, 
not  in  the  least  with  the  idea  of  helping  his  school 
with  a  new  respectability.  It  was,  anyhow,  beyond 
help,  and  a  man  who  offered  tradesmen's  sons  a 
sound  commercial  education  was  presently  to  buy 
him  out. 

Peter  Struggles,  well  in  his  fifties,  became  curate 
to  a  vicar  of  forty,  in  the  large,  rough-and-tumble 
parish  of  St.  Mary's.  One  says  that  he  had  failed 
in  life,  and,  by  Sam's  standards,  he  had,  and  even 
by  the  working  standards  of  his  church.  A  man 
at  fifty-six  should  not  be  a  curate  with  an  income 
of  some  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year.  But 
if  a  man  is  happy  at  fifty-six  to  be  a  curate  with 
that  income?  If  he  find  satisfaction  in  it?  Snuff 
was  his  indulgence,  and  the  chairmanship  of  the 
Concentrics,  who  were  not  sectarian,  his  dissipa- 
tion. For  the  rest,  Peter  had  made  harbour.  To 
the  pushing  educationist  who  had  bought  him  out, 
for  a  song,  and  now  profaned  his  old  school  build- 
ings with  shorthand  and  the  rudiments  of  book- 
keeping, Peter  was  a  failure  and  a  pathetic  failure. 
He  was  not  conscious  of  failure  himself,  nor  of 
anything  but  a  serene  contentment  that  he  had 
found,  if  late,  the  work  that  he  was  fit  to  do. 
Through  sheer  single-minded,  inoffensive,  unobtru- 
sive goodness  he  came  to  be  a  figure  in  that  parish, 
and  a  power.  Undignified  in  bearing,  and  careless 
in  dress,  he  had  a  dignity  of  mind  and  soul. 

Sam  Branstone  despised  a  worldly  failure.  Here 
was  a  man  of  more  than  twice  Sam's  years,  with 
less  money  than  Sam  had,  and,  by  all  his  canons, 
Sam  should  have  despised  Peter.  But  he  didn't. 
It  was  partly,  no  doubt,  other  people's  opinions 


76  THE  MARBECK  INN 

that  influenced  Sam  —  the  universal  esteem  which 
Peter  Struggles  won  —  but  it  was  by  much  more 
the  innate  nobility  of  the  old  curate.  Sam  began 
his  speaking  at  the  Concentrics  to  impress  his  fel- 
low members,  he  ended  by  caring  only  for  the  ap- 
preciation of  the  quaint,  slovenly  figure  who  oc- 
cupied the  chair. 

He  got  the  appreciation  he  craved.  Peter  was 
shrewd  enough  to  discount  Sam's  rhetorics,  and  the 
flashy  tricks  of  apt  quotation:  he  saw  Sam  as  a 
misguided,  self-seeking  thruster  who  read  only  for 
veneer  and  spoke  only  to  impress.  But,  at  least, 
Sam  tried,  and  Peter  could  admire  perseverance. 
The  thing  was  to  direct  Sam's  perseverance  well, 
and  Peter  asked  him  to  supper. 

Our  man  of  the  world  was  prodigiously  thrilled. 
The  honour  was  exceptional,  for  Peter  could  not 
afford  to  be  a  host  often,  and  Sam  was  aware  not 
only  of  its  rarity,  but  of  Peter's  unique  standing  in 
the  parish:  and,  more  than  that,  of  Peter's  worth. 
To  be  singled  out  by  Peter  Struggles,  and  asked  to 
sup,  was,  socially,  a  triumph.  It  sounds  absurd, 
and  perhaps  it  is  absurd  that  one  good  man  should 
shine  so  brightly  by  contrast  with  the  fifteen  thou- 
sand others  of  an  over-crowded  parish,  but  that  was 
why  Peter  was  a  colossus  amongst  the  pigmies,  and 
why  Sam  Branstone  was  egregiously  excited  by  an 
invitation  to  sup  at  Peter's  little  house. 

Peter  did  not  invite  Sam  to  preach  at  him.  It 
was  the  boy's  mind  rather  than  his  soul  that  was 
the  target  of  his  aim,  and  Peter's  select  library  to 
which  he  trusted  for  influence.  Certainly  the  little 
meal  of  cold  beef  and  cocoa  was  not  calculated  to 
impress,  nor  the  old,  worn  furniture,  with  the  gap- 


THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST  77 

ing  rents  in  its  horse-hair  coverings,  through  which 
the  stuffing  poured.  He  handled  books  with  rever- 
ence, and  spoke  of  them,  but  Sam  was  hardly  listen- 
ing. He  was  under  fire  from  another  battery. 

Ada  Struggles  met  young  men  at  church  func- 
tions, and  spoke  with  them  at  Sunday  School,  but 
she  had  few  opportunities  of  greater  intimacy,  and 
was  not  the  lady  to  waste  so  rare  a  chance  as  this. 
Peter  droned  on  amongst  his  books  and  presently 
was  lost  in  reading  one.  Ada  lost  herself  in  noth- 
ing except  a  burning  desire  to  monopolize  Sam. 
Books  did  not  interest  Ada :  getting  married  did. 

The  trouble  was  that  in  the  days  of  his  school's 
comparative  prosperity,  Peter  had  done  Ada  rather 
well.  Perhaps  as  a  schoolmaster  himself,  he  got 
special  consideration  over  terms,  but  at  any  rate 
he  had  sent  her  to  a  good  boarding  school.  She 
had  received  the  education  of  a  lady,  and  it  wasn't 
fair,  it  didn't  chime  with  the  fitness  of  things  that 
she  should  now  be  the  daughter  of  an  impractical 
curate.  Her  case,  to  some  extent,  was  parallel  with 
Sam's :  the  past  of  both  had  augured  well,  and  the 
future  depended  on  their  wits. 

There,  however,  the  parallel  ceased,  for  Ada  had 
few  wits,  but  she  had  moods,  and  the  reverse  side  of 
the  moping  discontent,  which  was  endemic  with  her, 
was  the  meretricious  brilliance  she  now  paraded 
for  Sam's  entanglement.  Ada  was  "  all  out  "  after 
her  prey,  in  her  best  clothes  and  her  best,  that  is, 
her  most  captivatingly  genial  manners. 

Sam  thought  that  she  illuminated  that  dingy 
book-surrounded  room.  They  were  not  gay  books 
with  gilded  bindings,  but  solid,  well-worn  volumes 
of  ponderous  aspect.  The  books  repelled  and  Ada 


78  THE  MARBECK  INN 

invited.  Youth  called  to  youth:  youth  answered 
to  the  call. 

He  was  obsessed  with  his  idea  of  accent,  and  the 
worldly  value  of  superiority  in  speech.  Ada's  first 
appeal  to  him,  though  she  did  not  know  it,  was  that 
she  spoke  well;  her  second  was  that  she  was  her 
father's  daughter;  her  third,  as  she  knew  perfectly, 
was  the  helplessness  which  she  used  cunningly  to 
flatter  his  masculine  importance.  She  told  him 
without  a  word  that  he  was  a  strong,  powerful  man, 
and  she  a  flower  which  he  might  pluck  and  wear. 
And  she  did  the  anemone  business  quite  effectively. 

There  was  not  much  of  Ada,  and  what  there  was 
was  not  remarkable,  but  she  was  fluffy  and  frilly 
and  feminine  in  the  feebler  way.  She  had  on  some- 
thing that  was  not  silk  but  suggested  the  rustle  of 
silk.  After  all,  it  was  not  Ada's  fault  that  it  was 
not  silk,  or  that  her  intimate  underclothing  was  of 
flannelette;  she  could  only  use  the  opportunities 
she  had,  and  they  were  few. 

But  she  had  the  prettiness,  the  rather  silly  and 
never  lasting  prettiness,  which  accompanies  an- 
aemia. It  would  not  wear,  and  she  knew  that  it 
would  not  wear.  She  was  becoming  desperate. 
Sam  was  sent  by  heaven. 

He  thought  so,  too.  Old  Struggles  read  "  Mar- 
cus Aurelius,"  standing  by  his  book-shelf,  utterly 
forgetful  of  his  guest,  and  the  guest  thought  that 
Peter's  preoccupation  was  also  instructed  by 
heaven.  It  left  him  free  for  Ada. 

What  he  said  to  Ada  and  what  Ada  said  to  him 
were  things  of  no  importance:  their  serious  con- 
versation was  not  conducted  by  their  tongues,  but 
by  their  eyes. 


THE  FLEDGLING  CAPITALIST  79 

This  is  the  sort  of  thing: 

Ada  (her  voice)  :  Of  course,  I  remember  seeing 
you  quite  often  in  church,  Mr.  Branstone. 

( Her  eyes )  :     And  you  found  favour  in  my  sight. 

Sam  (his  voice)  :  Naturally,  I  always  saw  you 
whenever  I  went. 

(His  eyes)  :     It  was  for  you  I  went  to  church. 

Ada  (her  voice)  :  I'm  glad  that  you  were  able  to 
come  in  to-night.  I  am  often  lonely  in  the 
evenings.  Father  is  so  wrapped  up  in  his 
books. 

(Her  eyes)  :  Meeting  you  is  the  great  moment 
of  my  life.  I'm  an  unhappy  princess  in  an 
ogre's  tower.  Kescue  me.  Kescue  me. 

Sam  (his  voice)  :  It  was  most  kind  of  Mr.  Strug- 
gles to  ask  me  in  for  a  talk  about  books. 

(His  eyes)  :  Books  be  damned.  I'm  fascinated 
by  the  sensuous  rustle  of  your  skirts,  and  I'm 
a  hero  sent  to  kiss  the  wistful  look  away  from 
your  pleading  eyes. 

And  so  on.  By  the  end  of  the  evening,  had  the 
unsaid  speeches  or  half  of  them  been  written  down, 
Ada  had  evidence  enough  to  have  brought  a  breach 
of  promise  action  against  a  recalcitrant  Sam. 
Only  Sam  was  not  recalcitrant,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, ardent.  It  was,  Ada  congratulated  herself, 
uncommonly  good  going  for  a  first  meeting. 

Peter  emerged  from  "  Marcus  Aurelius  "  with  a 
gentle  smile  which  lighted  up  his  undistinguished 
face.  "  Yes.  Pagan  but  grand,"  he  said,  quite  un- 
aware that  half  an  hour  had  passed  since  he  last 
spoke.  "  I'll  lend  you  this  book,  Branstone,  and 


80  THE  MARBECK  INN 

now  " —  he  glanced  at  the  clock  — "  I'm  afraid  that 
I  must  turn  you  out.  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 
How  rapidly  the  time  passes  when  one  is  talking 
about  one's  books !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ADA   STRUGGLES 

THERE  were  moments  during  that  night  when  Sam 
imagined  that  he  was  in  the  stranglehold  of  a  grand 
passion :  times  when  he  quite  successfully  deceived 
himself  that  he  burned  for  Ada. 

And  certainly  the  experience,  unique  for  him,  of 
a  sleepless  night  lent  colour  to  the  belief  that  he 
was  passionately  in  love,  whereas  he  was,  in  fact, 
merely  attracted  by  a  girl  who  had  spared  no  pains 
to  attract ;  and  what  kept  Sam  awake  was  not  pas- 
sion but  calculation.  The  affair,  indeed,  was  as 
broad  as  it  was  long :  it  had  a  slender  basis  of  mu- 
tual attraction,  and  a  monstrous  superstructure  on 
each  side  of  self-interest. 

He  did  not  "  see  through  "  Ada  to  the  point  of 
being  prophetic  about  her,  but  he  did  even  from 
the  beginning  perceive  that  Anne  was  not  likely  to 
be  enthusiastic.  But  would  Anne  greet  any  daugh- 
ter-in-law with  open  arms?  Was  there  born  the 
daughter  of  Eve  whom  Anne  would  think  the  peer 
of  her  Sam?  He  did  not  want  to  cross  his  mother, 
but  a  man  must  be  a  man,  and  a  mother's  fondness 
and  her  jealousy  of  the  intending  wife  were  things 
about  which  one  had  to  be  callous.  The  world,  as 
Benedick  said,  must  be  peopled. 

Anne  would  see  eye  to  eye  with  him  as  to  the 
practical  advantages  of  Ada.  Ada  was  Peter's 
daughter. 


82  THE  MARBECK  INN 

That  parentage  had,  by  way  of  discount,  the 
defect  of  its  quality.  Socially  it  was  a  great  thing 
to  be  Peter's  son-in-law,  and  not  only  socially  but 
ideally.  Sam's  admiration  for  the  curate  was  gen- 
uine enough,  and  he  knew  that  Anne  shared  it. 
But  there  was  the  question  of  money,  and  Peter 
had  none.  Sam  kept  his  mother,  and  would  have 
to  keep  his  wife.  He  saw  in  Ada  an  asset  which  he 
could  ultimately  exploit,  but,  in  the  meantime,  until 
there  came  into  his  mind  the  scheme  which  should 
turn  his  association  with  Peter  into  money,  he  must 
reckon  on  a  tight  period.  Anne  would  see  the  tight 
period,  but  not  the  unborn,  fruitful  plan  on  which 
he  counted  for  their  future.  And  he  could  not 
hurry  that  plan  to  birth.  His  schemes  came  to  him 
when  he  least  expected  them,  spontaneously.  They 
were  not  to  be  forced  by  worry. 

Again,  he  reminded  himself,  there  was  no  hurry. 
He  had  only  just  met  Ada,  and  was  planning  as  if 
his  engagement  ring  wrere  on  her  finger.  Not  that 
he  had  any  serious  doubts  about  that  ring  and 
Ada's  willingness  to  wear  it,  but  she  did  not  wear 
it  yet,  and  there  was  time  in  hand,  and  to  spare, 
for  consideration  of  these  practical  affairs. 

Meantime,  he  loved  her,  and  love,  according  to 
the  authors,  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the 
world.  He  told  himself  very  firmly  that  he  loved 
Ada,  and  that  love  was  wonderful.  Reiteration  is 
so  potent  that  before  morning  he  believed  what  he 
wished  to  believe.  He  recalled  the  soft  pressure 
of  her  hand  when  she  said  "  Good-night,"  the  frou- 
frou of  her  skirt,  her  melting  eye;  and  persuaded 
himself  that  Ada  Struggles  was  a  pearl  beyond 
price. 


ADA  STRUGGLES  83 

He  was  perfectly  sure  that  he  loved  her,  and  for 
proof  there  was  his  sleeplessness.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  as  he  could  not  sleep,  and  was  only  think- 
ing in  circles,  he  might  as  well  do  something  to 
hasten  the  time  when  he  could  see  Ada  again.  He 
could  not  return  "  Marcus  Aurelius  "  to  Peter  until 
he  had  read  it,  and  if  he  returned  it  with  unex- 
pected promptitude,  he  must  be  ready  to  face  a  stiff 
examination  in  it ;  therefore  he  lit  the  gas  and  read 
"  Marcus  Aurelius  "  by  way  of  serving  Ada,  whom 
he  loved. 

Hard  service,  too,  for  there  was  not  much  in 
Sam's  philosophy  which  agreed  with  the  Emperor's, 
but  two  nights  later  he  was  ringing  Peter's  bell 
with  the  book  under  his  arm,  an  ordered  precis  of 
it  in  his  mind,  and  some  selected  passages  from  it 
on  his  tongue.  They  were  not  selected  because 
Sam  liked  them,  but  because  he  thought  Peter  liked 
them. 

Peter  was  out,  but  Ada  was  in,  and,  curiously 
enough  for  one  who  was  not  an  optimist  either  by 
nature  or  experience,  dressed  again  in  her  Sunday 
clothes. 

She  opened  the  door  to  him.  "  Father  is  out, 
Mr.  Branstone,"  she  said. 

"  I  only  called  to  return  him  this  book." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will  be  long,"  said  Ada 
promptly,  who  knew  very  well  that  Peter  would 
certainly  be  late.  "  Will  you  not  come  in  and  wait 
for  him?" 

He  came,  crossing  his  Rubicon.  The  unchaper- 
oned  intimacy  of  that  night  struck  both  of  them  as 
a  daring  short  cut  to  a  position  to  which  they  were 
not  entitled  —  a  thing  properly  done  only  by  the 


84  THE  MARBECK  INN 

engaged  and  the  maturely  and  securely  engaged. 
Luck  fought  for  Ada. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  stay  very  long,"  he  hedged 
desperately. 

Ada  sat  down  and  crossed  her  knees.  A  neat 
ankle  was  effectively  on  exhibition.  "  That  chair 
of  father's,"  she  said,  "  is  fairly  comfortable." 
Also,  it  faced  Ada's,  and  he  drew  up  another,  less 
inviting,  chair,  and  placed  it  flush  with  the  fire. 
Except  by  a  side-glance,  he  could  not  see  her  ankle 
now,  and  evaded  that  aphrodisiac,  while  Peter's 
chair,  though  empty,  completed  the  semi-circle,  and 
seemed  to  give  a  sort  of  countenance  to  their  inter- 
view. Sam  drew  much  comfort  from  that  chair, 
and  tried  to  guide  their  conversation  into  literary 
paths  of  which  the  chair  would  have  approved.  He 
discoursed  of  "  Marcus  Aurelius,"  and  he  was  very 
dull,  but  felt  virtuous. 

Ada  did  not  believe  that  it  was  virtuous  to  be 
dull,  and  mentally  cursed  that  tertium  quid,  the 
ghost  of  Peter  Struggles,  whom  Sam  had  so  firmly 
established  in  his  chair;  but  she  saw  that  the  pace 
was  not  to  be  quickened  here,  under  Peter's  roof. 

"  I  think  your  knowledge  of  books  is  wonderful, 
Mr.  Branstone,"  she  said,  when  Sam  had  exhausted 
his  ideas  about  "  Marcus  Aurelius."  "  I  never  find 
time  to  read,  myself.  Whenever  I  have  the  op- 
portunity of  recreation,  I  go  out  for  exercise." 
The  statement  lacked  the  merit  of  truth.  She  never 
took  exercise,  but  was  adept  at  sitting  in  front  of  a 
fire  doing  exactly  nothing.  The  point  was  that  in 
this  house  of  the  good  Peter,  Sam's  enterprise  was 
burked,  and  she  wanted  him  where  he  could  race 
without  a  handicap.  "  Do  you  ever  go  to  Heaton 


ADA  STRUGGLES  85 

Park?"  she  asked  conversationally.  "I  shall 
probably  be  going  there  on  Saturday." 

"With  —  with  your  father?"  asked  Sam. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered  brightly.  "  Saturday  is 
sermon  day.  That  is  why  I  am  in  the  way  here, 
although,"  she  added  pathetically,  "  I  fear  he  often 
finds  me  in  the  way.  I  am  not  bookish  like  you  and 
him."  She  gave  that  explanation  suddenly,  and  it 
satisfied  him. 

"  I  am  not  really  bookish,  either,"  he  said.  "  Of 
course  you  won't  be  going  alone  to  Heaton  Park." 

She  hoped  not.     "  I  expect  so,"  she  said. 

Sam  took  the  plunge.  "  Could  I  have  the  honour 
of  accompanying  you,  Miss  Struggles?" 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  so  busy.  I  must  not  waste 
your  time." 

"  It  couldn't  be  wasted  with  you,"  said  Sam,  and 
glanced  guiltily  at  Peter's  chair,  as  if  he  had  ex- 
ceeded the  limits  of  propriety,  but  he  had  never 
seen  Peter  with  anything  but  a  benevolent  smile  on 
his  face,  and  was  unable  to  see  him  imaginatively 
now  in  any  other  mood.  He  took  fresh  courage. 
"  May  I  call  for  you?  " 

"  That,"  said  Ada,  "  would  never  do.  It  would 
disturb  father  at  his  sermon.  I  shall  go  by  tram 
at  about  three  o'clock."  She  rose.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  done  with  Sam  in  that  house,  but 
she  pinned  her  faith  to  Heaton  Park:  and  not  in 
vain. 

Allow  for  the  difference  in  size,  distance  and  the 
general  scale  of  things,  and  Heaton  Park  may  be 
regarded  as  the  Manchester  equivalent  to  Richmond 
Park. 

Once  upon  a  time  the  Manchester  Town  Council 


86  THE  MARBECK  INN 

had  a  magnificent  opportunity,  and  lost  it.  There 
are  legends  that  they  did  not  mean  to  lose  it,  and 
that  they  did  not  lose  it  through  any  fault  of  theirs. 
But  they  lost  it.  They  lost  the  chance  of  buying 
Trafford  Park,  which  lies  along  the  banks  of  the 
Manchester  Ship  Canal,  and  was  bought  by  Mr. 
Ernest  Terah  Hooley.  It  is  said  that  Trafford 
Park,  now  a  flourishing  and  rather  American-look- 
ing industrial  town  (even  the  streets  in  its  resi- 
dential area  are  numbered,  and  not  named,  after 
the  American  plan,  and  railways  stray  about  the 
vroads,  more  Americano),  is  the  one  successful  en- 
terprise associated  with  the  name  of  Hooley.  That 
may  or  may  not  be  true :  at  any  rate  the  Manchester 
Town  Council  missed  its  chance  at  Trafford  Park, 
and  when  Heaton  Park,  another  old  estate,  came 
into  the  market,  the  Council  did  not  repeat  their 
mistake. 

One  goes,  ascending  all  the  way,  through 
Cheetham  Hill,  the  Ghetto,  to  the  heights  of  Crump- 
sail  and  the  Park  by  a  municipal  tram,  which  is 
admirably  cheap  or  criminally  cheap  (according  to 
one's  views  on  municipal  trams),  and,  in  any  case, 
magnificently  efficient :  and  at  the  end  of  the  ride, 
one  finds  beauty.  One  may  find  tea  at  Heaton  Hall, 
and  pictures  that  overflow  from  the  meagre  Art 
Gallery  in  Mosley  Street,  and  municipal  golf-links, 
but  one  finds  also  beauty. 

It  is  a  rolling  country,  raised  above  the  smoke, 
dotted  with  wood  and  lake.  Old  gardens  cling 
about  the  Hall,  with  rhododendron  glades  where 
there  are  sculpture  and  pools,  and  the  Park  rolls 
free  in  open  air  that  is  as  clean  as  any  air  can  be 
within  five  miles  of  Manchester  Town  Hall.  It 


ADA  STRUGGLES  87 

lacks  of  Paradise,  and  if  one  can  see  green  hills 
from  Heaton  Park,  one  cannot  help  but  see  the  fac- 
tory stacks  that  crown  them  or  rise  up  from  the 
valleys,  but  beauty  lingers  here  on  the  outskirts 
of  an  ugly  city  secure  against  the  jerry-builder  and 
the  ultimate  defilement. 

Ada  was  going  to  Heaton  Park.  Lovers  have 
gone  to  Heaton  Park  before  Ada  and  they  will  go 
when  Ada  has  crumbled  to  dust.  Ada  went,  and 
Sam  went  with  her. 

He  went  with  her,  not  she  with  him :  but  if  she 
led,  he  was  very,  very  far  from  admitting  it,  though 
it  may  have  been  his  obscure,  subconscious  knowl- 
edge of  her  leadership  which  made  him  outwardly 
assume  the  mien  and  the  gestures  of  a  leader.  He 
asserted,  every  inch  of  him,  that  he  was  man,  the 
conqueror,  and  she  permitted  the  assertion  and 
flattered  it.  Leading,  indeed,  was  not  a  habit  of 
Ada's,  who  was  born  to  be  led,  but  it  is  given  to  all 
of  us  to  outstrip  our  nature  on  occasion,  and  this 
was  Ada's  chance.  A  subtle  skill  was  granted  her 
that  she  might  be  cunning  with  her  opportunity. 
She  was  all  calculation  now,  while  Sam  forgot  to 
calculate,  and  walked  with  Ada  on  his  arm  along 
the  main  drive  of  Heaton  Park. 

Romance  kept  step  with  him  and  put  a  radiant 
veil  between  his  sober  senses  and  this  witching 
hour :  through  glamour  he  beheld  his  Ada,  and  saw 
that  she  was  good.  He  soared  to  high  ambition, 
either  to  die  or  to  possess  the  nymph,  and  now,  that 
heady  hour,  to  put  all  to  the  test  amongst  the 
rhododendron  bushes  behind  the  Hall. 

There,  by  a  patch  of  ancient  turf,  he  halted  her, 
and  found  a  seat  near  the  pool  where  water-lilies 


88  THE  MARBECK  INN 

thrive:  a  lovers'  nook,  love  haunted.  Who  knows 
what  ardours  of  the  old  regime,  when  lords  and 
ladies  trod  that  turf,  had  passed  upon  the  now  de- 
caying stone  of  that  comely  seat?  What  ghostly 
lovers  in  satin  and  brocade  stood  round  to  bless 
them  or  to  mock?  Wood  pigeons  cooed  above  them, 
calling  the  tune,  and  Sam  danced  to  it  in  an  ecstasy 
of  hot  desire. 

She  had  the  sleek  self-satisfaction  of  a  cat,  the 
same  unhurried  certainty  that  the  mouse  was 
hers  to  gobble  when  she  chose.  Ada  was  very 
happy. 

But  apprehension  gripped  him  now.  He  had  not 
known  her  for  a  week,  and  she  was  Ada,  Peter's 
daughter.  He  stood  aghast  at  his  precipitance, 
then,  with  the  feeling  that  it  was  after  all  a 
"stroke"  (though  a  larger  one  than  ever  before), 
and  that  he  believed  in  acting  promptly,  cleared 
his  throat  and  plunged  into  speech. 

"  Miss  Struggles,"  he  said,  "  I  know  that  I  have 
only  made  your  acquaintance  during  the  current 
week,  but  I  seem  to  have  known  you  all  my  life. 
It's  because  I  used  to  see  you  in  church,  I  daresay. 
I  mean  we  were  not  strangers  when  we  met,  and, 
anyhow,"  he  continued  recklessly,  "  I  don't  care  if 
we  were.  I'm  not  the  hesitating  sort.  I  mean, 
show  me  a  thing,  and  I  can  tell  you  right  off 
whether  it's  good  or  bad.  My  mind's  made  up  in  a 
jiffy:  that's  the  kind  of  fellow  I  am.  And  when 
my  mind's  made  up,  I  act." 

Ada  had  given  a  little  gasp  at  the  phrasing  of  his 
opening  —  that  "  during  the  current  week,"  an 
idiom  from  his  business  correspondence  slipping  in 
here  to  mark  his  nervousness  —  but  he  was  fairly 


ADA  STRUGGLES  89 

launched  now,  and  she  purred  gently  like  a  cat  well 
lubricated  with  butter. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Branstone,"  she  said,  "  I  think  men 
ought  to  be  resolute." 

"  So  do  I,"  he  replied.  "  And  so  I  am.  Quite 
resolute  and  quite  determined  about  you." 

"About  me?"  She  turned  innocent  eyes  won- 
deringly  at  him.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  being 
personal." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  am.  I  am,"  he  repeated, 
and  took  her  hand. 

"  Mr.  Branstone,"  she  murmured,  as  one  who 
sees  a  vision  spendid  in  a  dream,  and  let  her  hand 
lie  limp  in  his. 

He  bent  to  her.  "  Can't  you,"  he  asked  hoarsely, 
"  can't  you  call  me  Sam?  " 

She  called  him  Sam,  and  he  kissed  her. 

"  Ada !  "  He  spoke  her  name  like  a  caress. 
"  Ada ! "  Her  name  was  wonderful ;  she  was  a 
miracle;  Sam  was  triumphant  love.  At  that  mo- 
ment he  was  passionately  in  love,  and  he  had  con- 
quered. He  had  pressed  the  lips  of  his  divinity, 
shyly,  with  a  revealing  inexpertness  which  should 
have  charmed  her,  who,  being  a  woman,  knew  all 
about  love  while  Sam  was  in  short  trousers.  It 
didn't  charm  Ada,  it  touched  no  deeper  chord  than 
satisfaction  at  a  good  job  well  done.  This  was  his 
first,  his  freshest  love,  but  she  cared  only  that  the 
fish  was  on  her  line,  securely  hooked.  He  saw  her 
face,  idealized  her  face  and  gloried  in  her  face :  she 
saw  a  wedding-ring,  she  was  to  be  Mrs.,  she  was  to 
escape  the  book-ridden  home  of  Peter  Struggles. 
Both  had  their  moment  then,  but  Sam,  in  his,  loved 
Ada,  and  Ada  only  loved  herself. 


90  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Darling,"  he  said,  and  sought  her  lips  again. 
She  saw  the  thirst  of  him  —  and  used  it. 

She  drew  back.  "  I  do  not  think  you  ought  to 
kiss  me  again  until  we  have  mentioned  this  to  fa- 
ther," said  Ada  Struggles,  digging  the  hook  more 
deeply  in  her  fish.  "  Not,"  she  went  on,  as  she  saw 
him  flinch,  "  that  I  do  not  want  you  to.  Only " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  she  left  it  at  the  "  only,"  and 
allowed  him  to  appreciate  her  infinite  delicacy. 
"  Yes.  Of  course.  Shall  we  have  tea  at  the 
Hall?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Ada,  "  ought  we  to?  "  She  was  seen 
to  tremble  on  the  brink  of  a  delicious  temptation, 
and  with  difficulty  to  resist.  "  I'm  afraid,"  she 
decided,  "  not  yet.  But  father  will  have  finished 
his  sermon  by  now,  and  if  you  came  and  saw  him  at 
once,  then  .  .  .  then,  Sam  .  .  ."  She  eyed  him, 
languishing,  and  opened  up  for  him  the  golden  vista 
of  a  jocund  courtship  —  once  Peter  had  been 
"  seen."  He  came,  obediently,  to  see  Peter,  and  she 
relaxed  her  standard  so  far  as  to  take  his  arm  down 
the  drive  of  Heaton  Park.  Indeed,  just  at  the  cor- 
ner by  the  copse,  where  they  were  hidden,  he  had  an 
arm  round  her  waist :  his  feet  trod  air,  and  his  head 
was  with  the  stars. 

Ada  was  thinking,  "  If  he  gets  the  engagement 
ring  to-night,  I  can  show  it  after  church  to-mor- 
row." 


CHAPTER  IX 

ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAB 

ON  general  grounds  —  on  the  grounds,  for  instance, 
of  anything  so  out-of-date  and  out  of  reason  as  filial 
piety  —  Ada  was  quite  indifferent  to  Peter's  "  con- 
sent," and  wanted  it  only  to  shackle  Sam  more 
firmly.  She  had  not  much  doubt  that  Peter  would 
consent,  as  in  fact  he  did,  though  not  so  readily  as 
she  had  anticipated.  She  did  not  exhibit  an  en- 
gagement ring  at  church  next  day  for  the  reason 
that  she  had  none  to  exhibit.  Peter  kept  Sam  too 
late  for  that. 

Of  course  Ada  was  wrong  about  Peter:  she 
thought  him  a  good  man  and  consequently  a  per- 
fect fool,  whereas  his  foolishness  was  imperfect, 
and  he  was  subject,  like  most  unworldly  people,  to 
streaks  of  acumen  about  worldly  affairs.  They 
come  sometimes,  these  disconcerting  fits  of  percep- 
tion, as  if  a  dam  had  burst,  and  usually  the  times 
are  inconvenient  to  those  who  have  reckoned  on  the 
unworldliness. 

Peter  answered  her  expectation  so  far  as  to  say, 
"  Bless  my  soul,"  and  so  far  only.  After  that,  he 
began  an  elaborate  and  skilful  catechism  of  Sam, 
which  pretended  to  be  a  friendly  talk  about  books, 
but  was  really  an  examination  of  Sam  Branstone, 
his  character  and  disposition.  At  the  beginning 
Peter  knew  little  of  Sam  beyond  what  his  observa- 


92  THE  MARBECK  INN 

tions  at  the  Concentrics  had  told  him,  and  Sam's 
volunteered  remarks  about  his  salary  and  his  pros- 
pects interested  Peter  to  a  very  slight  extent.  At 
the  end  Peter  decided  that  Sam  was  to  be  trusted 
to  make  things  easy  for  Ada  on  the  material  side, 
and  that  spiritually  he  was  not  beyond  hope. 

But  he  had  not,  spiritually,  been  touched  as  yet. 
Would  Ada  touch  him?  That  was  the  question  for 
Peter,  who  knew  his  Ada.  Ada  could  be  led.  He 
admitted  that  he  himself  had  failed  with  her,  but  he 
was  not  a  strong  man.  A  strong  man,  with  love  as 
his  ally,  could  lead  Ada,  could  form  her^  and  Sam 
had  strength,  and,  Peter  thought,  love.  It  de- 
pended, then,  on  whether  Sam's  love  for  Ada,  react- 
ing on  him,  would  quicken  his  latent  spirituality  so 
that  the  lead  he  gave  to  Ada  would  be  good.  And 
on  the  whole  Peter  thought  there  was  a  reasonable 
chance.  He  believed  in  the  power  of  love,  he  be- 
lieved that  love  is  God  and  God  is  love,  and  con- 
fronted with  his  pair  of  self-confessed  lovers  he 
read  their  future  optimistically  in  the  light  of  his 
belief.  What  else  could  Peter  do?  They  said  they 
were  in  love,  they  appeared  to  be  in  love,  they  had 
the  symptoms  of  the  state  of  love.  He  could  only 
judge  the  case  on  the  evidence  before  the  court. 

He  could  not  know  that  with  Sam  the  symptoms, 
though  real,  were  temporary,  and  with  Ada  an  in- 
telligent mimicry.  He  gave  his  assent  to  their  en- 
gagement formally  and  very  solemnly. 

Sam  left  the  house  late,  thrilling  with  Ada's 
"  Good-night "  kiss,  but  the  glow  was  quick  to  fade, 
and  he  found  himself  thinking  rather  of  Peter  than 
of  Ada,  whom  (of  course)  he  loved.  If  ever  probe 
was  gentle,  it  was  Peter's:  nevertheless,  Sam  had 


ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAR  93 

felt  the  probe  antagonistically.  He  had  shivered 
naked  before  Peter's  inquisition,  he  had  understood 
that  he  was  under  examination,  and  resented  it. 
It  was,  however  disguisedly,  opposition,  and  the 
thought  of  that  kindly  opponent  led  him  to  think 
of  one  from  whom,  also,  opposition  was  to  be  ex- 
pected, and,  probably,  less  tactfully.  It  led  to 
Anne. 

Well,  that  was  the  fate  of  lovers :  it  was  the  way 
to  deepen  love  and,  perhaps  already  a  little  doubt- 
ful of  his  love,  he  welcomed  the  idea  of  Anne  in 
opposition.  It  was  curious  that,  while  he  thought 
of  Ada  as  the  one  woman  in  the  world,  he  should 
expect  Anne  to  be  hostile  not  merely  to  the  idea  of 
his  marriage  in  general,  but  to  marriage  with  Ada 
in  particular.  It  was  hardly  loyal  to  Ada,  who 
should  have  reigned  unchallengably  queen;  and  he 
could  offer  Anne  the  argument  of  the  advantages 
of  being  Peter  Struggles'  son-in-law.  But,  with  it 
all,  he  looked  for  friction,  and  Anne  was  not  to 
disappoint  him  there,  although  at  first  she  took  it 
with  a  calmness  which  disarmed  him. 

He  came  in,  of  course,  late,  and  ate  his  supper, 
silently  hoping  that  she  .would  give  him  an  opening, 
but  Anne  asked  no  questions,  though  she  had  not 
seen  him  since  early  morning,  and  Sam  was  not 
often  out  for  meals.  She  asked  no  questions  be- 
cause she  wanted  to  watch  him  first.  It  was  clear 
to  her  at  a  glance  that  he  was  in  one  of  two  con- 
ditions :  he  was  drunk  or  he  was  in  love,  and  she 
wanted  to  make  no  mistake.  If  it  was  drink  she 
would  move  very  promptly  and  directly:  if  love, 
cannily  and  by  devious  ways.  She  found  quickly 
that  it  was  not  drink.  It  was  more  serious. 


94  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Her  silence  awed  him.  "  Mother,"  he  asked  by 
way  of  breaking  it,  "  aren't  you  well?  " 

"  Aye,"  she  said  grimly,  "  I'm  well.     Are  you?  " 

"  I've  eaten  a  good  supper." 

"  I  noticed  that.     I'll  clear  away  now." 

"  Wait  a  bit.     I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"  I  reckon  it'll  keep  till  morning.  You  mayn't 
have  known  it,  but  you  came  in  late.  It's  bed-time 
and  beyond." 

"  Still,"  he  said,  "  I'd  like  you  to  hear  this  to- 
night." 

"You  sound  serious,"  said  Anne,  and  sat. 
"What  is  it,  Sam?" 

"  It's  something  rather  wonderful,  mother." 

"  It  would  be,"  said  Anne.  "  What's  her 
name?  " 

Sam  rose,  astonished  at  her  perspicacity.  "  You 
guessed !  " 

"  I'm  none  in  my  dotage  yet."    Anne  was  grim. 

"  Mother,  I  hope  you're  pleased.  You  must  be 
pleased.  It's  all  so  wonderful  to  me." 

"  I  asked  you  her  name,"  said  Anne. 

"  It's  Ada  Struggles.  You  know,"  he  went  on 
hurriedly,  "  how  much  we  all  admire  her  father." 

"  I  know,  but  I  don't  know  Ada." 

"  You  will  soon,"  said  Sam  enthusiastically. 

"  I  will  that,"  said  Anne,  and  there  was  menace 
in  her  voice.  She  took  her  candle.  "  Good-night, 
my  son,"  she  said,  kissing  him,  which  was  not 
habitual. 

"  Is  that  all?  "  he  asked.  "  All  that  you  have  to 
say?  " 

"  I  don't  know  Ada  yet,"  she  said,  and  so  was 
gone  to  bed. 


ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAR  95 

Peter  and  Anne  went  opposite  ways  in  their 
search  to  know  whether  this  marriage  was  the  right 
thing  for  their  children's  happiness.  Peter  ignored 
the  bread  and  butter  problem,  or  took  it  for 
granted :  and  his  was  the  higher  wisdom.  He  knew 
that  Sam  was  not  made  of  the  stuff  that  starves  for 
bread;  not  in  his  body  but  in  his  soul  was  Sam 
likely  to  be  pinched. 

Anne  took  the  earthlier  view  that  happiness  re- 
sulted from  home  comforts.  Ada,  as  she  knew, 
was  no  shining  beauty,  and  the  better  for  that. 
Beauty  is  skin-deep.  But  she  looked  frail,  only  so, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  did  some  of  the  toughest 
girls,  and  she  took  it  that  Sam  had  had  the  horse- 
sense  to  make  some  preliminary  inquiries  before 
he  committed  himself.  Sam,  it  appeared,  had  not. 

Was  Ada  strong  and  healthy?  Was  she  econo- 
mical? Could  she  cook?  Was  she  her  own  dress- 
maker? And  when  she  found  that  Sam  could  an- 
swer none  of  these  questions,  she  said  ironically: 
"  Well,  at  least,  you've  eyes  in  your  head.  Is  their 
house  clean?  " 

Sam  could  only  say  that  he  supposed  so,  and 
Anne  looked  witheringly  at  him.  "  Yes,  you're  in 
love  all  right,"  she  said.  "  They  say  love's  blind. 
You're  leaving  a  lot  to  me." 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  alarmed,  "  what  are  you  go- 
ing to  do?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  get  acquainted  with  Ada,"  she 
said.  "  One  of  us  must  know  her,  and  you  don't." 

"  If  you'll  be  fair  to  her,"  said  Sam.  "  I'm  not 
afraid." 

"I'll  be  fair,"  said  Anne,  and  meant  to  be;  but 
is  a  mother  ever  fair  to  the  prospective  wife  of  her 


96  THE  MARBECK  INN 

only  son?  Perhaps,  and  in  that  case  Anne  went  to 
Ada  with  an  open  mind.  "  After  all,"  she  re- 
flected, "  I  daresay  Tom  Branstone's  mother  didn't 
think  much  of  me,  though  Tom  was  one  of  ten  and 

it  makes  a  difference.  It  oughtn't  to,  though " 

she  pulled  herself  up.  "  Anne,  you'll  be  fair  to  the 
girl."  She  looked  indulgently  at  Ada's  curtains 
and  rang  Ada's  bell. 

But  Ada  was  wearing  silver  bangles  on  her  wrists 
and  her  shoes  were  made  for  show.  Anne  had  the 
sort  of  pleasure  which  comes  from  having  one's 
worst  fears  realized.  She  may  have  generalized  too 
sweepingly,  but  she  held  that  only  shallow  people 
wear  silver  bangles  and  shoes  whose  aim  is  dainti- 
ness and  not  durability. 

First  impressions,  at  any  rate,  went  heavily 
against  Ada,  but  Anne  remembered  her  promise  to 
be  fair.  It  was  possible  that  when  Tom  Branstone 
took  Anne  to  see  his  mother,  that  lady  did  not  like 
Anne's  way  of  doing  her  hair.  To  each  generation 
the  symbols  of  its  youth  and  perhaps  bangles  on 
Ada  were  not  more  skittish  than  a  cairngorn  brooch 
had  been  on  Anne. 

"  I  have  tea  ready,  Mrs.  Branstone,"  said  Ada. 
"  Sam  told  me  you  were  coming." 

"Did  he?"  Anne  was  surprised  into  saying. 
She  had  not  told  Sam  of  her  intention  and  his  guess 
at  it  and  his  warning  of  Ada  had  spoilt  her  plan  of 
coming  upon  Ada  unawares.  She  wanted  Ada  un- 
prepared and  unadorned:  Ada  at  home,  not  Ada 
"  at  home."  And  Ada  was  very  much  "  at  home." 
The  room  had  been  "  turned  out  " —  and  so  had 
Peter  that  it  might  be  —  company  manners  and  the 
company  tea-pot  were  on  exhibition,  and  everything 


ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAR  97 

was  formal  and  obviously  thought  out.  And,  as 
Anne  had  to  admit,  not  badly  thought  out  either. 
Ada  had  not  been  to  that  expensive  boarding-school 
for  nothing ;  she  had  an  air  to  awe  a  porter's  widow. 
Anne  didn't  like  her  trick  of  putting  the  milk  in  the 
cup  before  she  poured  the  tea,  nor  her  dogmatic 
way  of  asserting  that  it  improved  the  flavour  and 
that  "  everybody  did  it  now."  Everybody,  did  not 
do  it,  Anne  did  not  do  it;  but,  again,  perhaps  this 
was  the  modern  touch,  and  Anne  had  come  to  be 
fair. 

She  made  her  first  score  when  Ada  left  the  room 
for  hot  water.  "  This  room's  been  dusted  to-day," 
thought  Anne.  "  I'll  see  what  her  dusting  is 
worth."  She  put  it  to  the  test  by  running  her 
finger  along  the  top  of  the  books  on  one  of  the 
shelves,  and  her  finger  was  very  black. 

The  only  way  to  keep  books  clean  in  Manchester 
is  the  way  taken  by  nine  out  of  ten  people:  they 
have  no  books.  Some  of  the  others  put  books  be- 
hind glass,  like  orchids,  the  rest  have  the  habit  of 
blowing  hard  at  a  book  when  they  take  it  from  its 
shelf,  and  of  washing  their  hands  before  opening 
it. 

Anne'  did  not  know  that.  She  kept  Sam's  few 
books  clean  by  daily  elbow-grease,  and  now  fur- 
tively wiped  her  dirty  finger  on  her  stocking  with 
the  feeling  that  she  had  found  out  Ada.  The  dust 
on  the  books  (and  certainly  it  was  thick)  confirmed 
the  impression  left  by  the  bangles,  and  Anne  was 
not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  her  spying.  Sam  had 
stolen  a  march  on  her  by  warning  Ada  and  she  paid 
him  in  his  own  coin. 

And  from  then  onwards  the  score  rose  steadily 


98  THE  MARBECK  INN 

against  Ada.  There  were  cakes  for  tea.  Now  the 
only  excuse  for  cakes  was  that  one  baked  them 
oneself  and  Ada  confessed  that  they  came  from 
Mrs.  Stubbing  and  made  the  further  mistake  of 
showing  an  expert's  knowledge  in  the  productions 
of  Mrs.  Stubbins'  confectionery  shop.  "  Frivolous 
in  food  as  well  as  dress,"  was  Anne's  comment. 
Her  dress,  Anne  learnt,  had  been  made  by  Madame 
Eobinson. 

"  She's  dear,"  said  Ada,  "  but  quite  French. 
And,  of  course,  she  comes  to  church." 

No  Nonconformists  need  apply;  but  Anne  was 
thinking  not  of  Madame's  religion  but  her  bills. 
The  employer  of  a  quite  French  dressmaker  called 
Robinson,  born  Duff,  was  no  wife  for  Sam  Bran- 
stone.  And  by  way  of  making  Anne's  assurance 
doubly  sure,  Ada  let  slip  something  about  being 
under  the  doctor. 

But  Anne  was  not  sanguine.  She  saw  clearly 
enough  that  it  was  precisely  Ada's  weakness  which 
was  her  strength  with  Sam.  Sam  had  been  leant 
upon  by  Madge  and  George,  and  liked  it,  as  Anne 
herself,  in  that  case,  had  liked  it.  But  that  was  a 
different  case  from  this.  Madge  had  the  claim  of 
sisterhood;  Anne  could  see  nothing  in  Ada  and 
Ada's  weakness  to  give  her  the  claim  to  lean  on 
Sam:  and  the  leaning  in  marriage  should  not  be 
one-sided.  Ada  could  give  Sam  nothing  except  her- 
self, and  Anne  did  not  think  that  gift  worth  having. 

Sam,  unfortunately,  did  and  Anne  doubted  her 
power  of  changing  his  mind.  Her  first  attempt,  at 
all  events,  must  be  with  Ada,  and  she  felt  cramped 
in  Ada's  house,  for  the  reason,  perhaps,  that  it  was 
Peter's  house,  the  shrine  of  his  simplicity.  She 


ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAR  99 

wanted  Ada  cut  off  from  the  defences  of  the  tea- 
table  and  her  own  familiar  surroundings,  and  say- 
ing something  about  the  warmth  of  tho  evening, 
suggested  a  ride  on  the  top  of  a  tram-car. 

"  I  often  do  it  myself,"  said  Anne.  "  It  blows 
the  cobwebs  away." 

She  did  it  as  a  matter  of  fact  not  often,  for  so 
it  would  have  lost  its  quality  of  a  dissipation,  but 
with  a  wise  irregularity  she  escaped  the  thraldom 
of  her  house  on  a  tram-car.  Tram  rides  were  her 
romance,  her  safety-valve,  her  glimpse  at  life.  Six- 
pennyworth  of  tram  is  cheaper  in  the  long  run  than 
fourpennyworth  of  gin:  both  carry  one  away,  but 
the  tram-car  brings  one  safely  back. 

Anne's  lip  tightened  when  she  saw  that  Ada  did 
not  change  the  flimsy  shoes  and  that  her  hat 
eclipsed  their  flimsiness.  A  "  baby  "  hat,  of  imi- 
tation lace,  from  which  her  face  peeped  out  like  a 
drooping,  sapless  flower.  "  Yes,"  thought  Anne. 
"  Men  being  men,  that  hat  is  clever.  It's  a  trap  for 
fools  and  it  caught  my  fool.  Ada  Struggles,  you're 
dangerous." 

They  took  the  front  seat  on  the  tram  and  aloud 
she  said,  using  purposely  her  roughest  accent: 
"  It's  queer  to  think  of  our  Sam  marrying  a  lady. 
I'm  not  saying  he  doesn't  deserve  it,  but  his  father 
were  a  railway  porter  and  mine  were  a  policeman. 
His  sister  was  in  service." 

"  Sam  will  get  on,"  said  Ada,  with  conviction. 

"  I'm  none  doubting  it,"  said  Anne.  "  But  he's 
had  luck  and  it's  a  question  if  the  luck'll  hold. 
Mr.  Travers  took  him  up  and  sent  him  to  Grammar 
School,  and  Sam  didn't  do  too  well  there.  He  dis- 
appointed me  and  he's  not  gone  on  as  he  might 


100  THE  MARBECK  INN 

have  done.  The  fight's  ahead  of  him  yet  and  he'll 
need  a  fighter  by  his  side.  I've  done  my  share  for 
him  this  long  while  and  I'm  getting  old.  I  shall 
be  glad  of  a  rest,  Ada.  Sam's  an  early  riser  and 
it's  weary  work  getting  up  on  a  winter's  morning  to 
light  the  fire  and  get  his  breakfast  ready.  Only 
that  won't  trouble  you.  You're  young." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Ada,  "  we  shall  have  a  serv- 
ant." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Anne,  "  on  two  pounds  ten 
a  week,  with  me  to  keep  and  all?  I  wouldn't  reckon 
on  that,  if  I  were  you.  Later  on,  perhaps.  But  I 
know  it  can't  be  done  at  present,  or  Sam  would 
have  done  it  for  me."  The  idea  of  Anne  Branstone 
with  a  wench  about  her  house  struck  her  as  hu- 
morous. Anne  might  have  help  some  day  —  when 
she  was  bed-ridden:  till  then,  her  house  was  her 
house.  "  No,"  she  went  on,  "  you  can  take  it  from 
me  that  it'll  not  run  to  a  servant.  I  don't  know 
what  his  idea  is  about  me,  whether  he  will  want 
me  to  live  with  you  or  not.  Likely  not.  A 
man  doesn't  want  his  mother  about  when  he's 
wed." 

"  No,"  agreed  Ada  hopefully.  Anne  oppressed 
her. 

"  No.  And  I  can  get  on  with  a  pound  a  week 
from  him.  That'll  leave  you  thirty  shillings. 
Well,  I've  done  it,  so  I  know  it  can  be  done,  though 
mind  you,  it's  a  struggle  all  the  time  and  double 
tides  when  the  babies  begin  to  come.  But  of  course 
I'll  help  you  —  with  advice.  I'm  not  for  forcing 
myself  on  you,  but  naturally  I  know  Sam's  ways 
and  his  likings  about  food.  He's  a  bit  difficult  at 
times,  too,  but  that's  nothing.  All  men  are  and 


ADA  AND  A  MAD  TRAM-CAR  101 

you'll  know  that,  having  had  your  father  to  do  for. 
I  don't  say  Sam's  finicky,  but  he  likes  what  he  likes 
and  I  hope  you're  fond  of  the  same  things.  It 
always  turned  me  up  to  clean  a  rabbit,  and  I  never 
liked  the  smell  of  onions,  but  that's  a  favourite  dish 
of  Sam's  and  so  I'd  just  to  grin  and  bear  it.  And 
I  know  you'll  do  the  same  for  Sam." 

Ada  squirmed  helplessly.  She  could  have 
screamed.  Anne  sat  at  the  outside  of  the  seat  and 
pinned  her  to  it.  The  tram  seemed  a  Juggernaut 
car  which  drove  implacably  over  her  dreams:  a 
prison  where  she  was  tortured  by  a  coarse  old 
woman  with  work-roughened  hands  and  an  endless 
flow  of  vitriol.  She  wanted  to  tell  Anne  that  she 
lied,  that  the  more  she  deprecated  Sam  the  more 
desirable  Ada  knew  him  to  be,  that  her  grapes  were 
neither  sour  nor  to  be  soured  by  Anne's  insane 
jealousy ;  and  she  could  not  do  it.  The  ride  seemed 
more  of  a  nightmare  with  every  moment  that 
passed.  The  tram  was  a  mad  wheeled  cage  with 
a  mad  driver  and  a  mad  guard.  It  left  the  lines 
and  careered  wildly  into  desolation,  and  she  was 
fettered  in  it  to  an  avenging  fury  who  would  not 
stop  talking,  but  with  ruthless  common  sense 
pricked  all  the  bubbles  of  her  hopes.  She  shut  her 
eyes  and  abandoned  herself  to  misery.  Each  min- 
ute seemed  an  hour.  She  thought  that  somebody 
was  throttling  her,  that  the  flying  cage  was  her 
tomb,  that  vampires  sucked  her  blood,  and  her 
naked,  drained  body  was  shackled  to  her  seat  until 
the  car,  driving  inevitably  through  black  space, 
bumped  finally  against  a  star  in  one  consuming 
smash.  She  opened  her  eyes  to  find  that  the  tram 
had  stopped  at  its  suburban  terminus  and  that 


102  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Anne  was  asking :  "  Shall  we  get  down  for  a  walk 
or  shall  we  go  back  by  the  same  car?  " 

So  she  was  still  in  the  living  world,  and  with  the 
consciousness  of  it  courage  returned  to  her.  For  a 
minute  she  was  silent,  fighting  her  demons  off, 
catching  at  facts  and  weighing  them.  Anne  was 
not  a  vampire,  but  an  old  worn  woman  who  had, 
curiously,  the  right  to  call  Sam  Branstone  son  — 
Ada's  future  mother-in-law,  and  a  quaint  one  too; 
one  to  be  put  firmly  and  haughtily  in  her  place  and 
kept  there. 

"  We'll  stay  on  this  car,"  she  replied.  Its  mad- 
ness had  departed.  It  was  a  tram,  quite  eminently 
sane  and  usual.  "  I  think,"  she  went  on,  "  that  you 
exaggerate  the  difficulties.  I've  no  doubt  that  Sam 
will  have  more  money  by  the  time  we're  married. 
You  see,  he  has  me  to  work  for  now." 

Not  a  simper  with  it  either.  Pure  matter-of-fact 
statement,  and  the  truth  of  it  hit  Anne,  the  cool 
assumption  that  Ada  as  a  spur  to  effort  was  more 
competent  than  Anne.  And  this  to  Anne  who  had 
learnt  algebra  for  Sam,  to  Anne  who  had  underfed 
herself  that  he  might  wear  the  clothes  a  Grammar 
School  boy  ought  to  wear,  to  Anne  who  —  oh,  it  was 
ineffable,  but  it  defeated  her  because  she  knew,  bit- 
terly, gallingly,  but  undeniably,  that  it  was  true. 
This  baby-faced  chit,  this  fool  in  petticoats  was 
more  to  Sam  than  the  mother  who  bore  him.  Queen 
Anne  was  dead  and  Ada  Struggles  reigned  in  place 
of  her. 


CHAPTER  X 

GERALD  ADAMS,   SOCIOLOGIST 

ANNE  called  at  Madge's  on  her  way  home. 
Madge's,  in  spite  of  George's  progress,  was  still  the 
house  which  had  been  the  premises  of  the  Hell-fire 
Club.  Anne  did  not  often  go  there  and  never  with- 
out reason,  but  Madge  was  at  a  loss  to  know  the 
reason  of  this  visit,  nor  did  she  guess  it  when  Anne 
unobtrusively  dovetailed  into  the  conversation 
about  young  Sam  Chappie  a  question  which  might 
have  seemed  irrelevant.  "  Have  you  done  any- 
thing yet  with  that  spare  room  of  yours  upstairs?  " 
she  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Madge.     "  Nor  likely  to,  I  fancy." 

That  was  the  reason  of  the  visit.  Anne  was  safe- 
guarding her  retreat,  though  she  by  no  means  ad- 
mitted that  it  would  come  to  a  retreat.  Engage- 
ments do  not  invariably  lead  to  marriage.  Mean- 
time, hers  was  the  waiting  game  and  a  rupture 
with  Sam  at  this  stage  was  to  be  avoided. 

When  he  asked  her,  not  too  confidently,  if  she  did 
not  agree  with  him  about  the  wonder  of  Ada,  she 
exercised  a  noble  self-restraint,  and  all  she  said 
was :  "  She's  not  the  wife  for  a  poor  man,  Sam." 

"  No,"  said  Sam  thoughtfully.  "  I'd  tumbled  to 
that.  And  I  don't  mean  to  be  poor  either,"  and 
so  went  out  to  open  the  dark  chapter  of  his  bright 
success.  He  went  to  the  Concentrics,  not  knowing 


104-  THE  MARBECK  INN 

that  he  was  going  to  his  fate.  He  went  because  it 
was  the  night  of  their  weekly  meeting  and  he  had 
to  go  somewhere  to  avoid  Anne's  eye,  but  his  mood 
was  not  concentric.  "  I  must  get  rich  for  Ada,  rich 
for  Ada,"  was  the  burden  of  his  thought  —  so  early 
did  he  justify  Ada's  words  to  Anne  —  and  it  was 
not  a  timely  thought  for  a  Concentrics  evening. 

He  had  even  forgotten  that  he  had  a  special  in- 
terest in  this  meeting,  where  the  lecturer  was  to  be 
Adams,  once  Sam's  pet  aversion  and  unbeatable 
rival  at  the  Grammar  School.  He  was  reminded 
of  it  when  he  found  himself  accosted  by  a  young 
man  whom  he  could  not  at  first  identify. 

"  Jove !  If  it  isn't  Sammy  Branstone !  Are  you 
a  member  of  these  fossils?  " 

"  Dubby  Stewart !  "  said  Sam,  as  recognition 
dawned  on  him. 

"  Reed's  here  as  well,  somewhere,"  said  Stewart. 
"  It's  a  gathering  of  the  clan." 

Reed  and  Stewart,  it  seemed,  were  both  members, 
which  is  to  say  that  they  had  come  once  or  twice 
some  time  ago  and  continued  to  keep  up  the  small 
subscription  from  force  of  habit  or  through  sheer 
weakness  to  stop  paying  it.  Few  societies  indeed 
could  exist  were  it  not  for  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
attending  nucleus  and  the  subscriptions  of  the  non- 
attending  mass. 

"  We  came  to  hear  Gerald  Adams  make  an  ass  of 
himself,"  Stewart  explained.  "  What  a  subject !  " 

Sam  had  even  forgotten  what  the  subject  was. 
"  Rich  for  Ada,  rich  for  Ada,"  was  still  ringing  in 
his  ears. 

The  subject  was  "  Social  Purity."  "  Which  ac- 
counts," said  Stewart,  "for  the  size  of  the  audi- 


GERALD  ADAMS,  SOCIOLOGIST         105 

ence.  They've  all  come  hoping  for  the  worst.  I 
know  I  have." 

The  worst  did  not  happen,  or,  rather,  if  it  did,  it 
was  so  skilfully  disguised  that  nobody  recognized 
it  as  the  worst.  It  was  easy  to  mistake  it  for  the 
best. 

Adams  was  one  part  in  earnest  and  two  parts 
impish  in  the  manner  of  the  superior  person  who  is 
out  for  an  intellectual  lark.  He  had  a  constant 
preoccupation  with  that  which  is  known  above  all 
other  questions  as  the  social  question.  It  was  not 
a  nice  preoccupation  for  a  young  man :  it  was,  for 
instance,  remote  from  the  healthy  exuberance  of 
Sam's  Rabelaisianism.  And,  of  course,  Adams  was 
wily:  he  wasn't  the  stuff  of  martyrdom.  He  en- 
joyed, as  an  intellectual  gymnastic,  the  treatment 
of  his  subject  so  that  it  should  at  once  shock  his 
audience  and  win  him  their  approval  as  an  honest 
man  doing  an  upleasant  job  from  conviction. 

Sam  agreed  with  Stewart.  His  old  prejudice 
against  Adams  was  strong  within  him  and  he  hoped 
Adams  would  come  a  cropper.  That  was  at  the  be- 
ginning, when  Adams,  with  an  egregious  affectation 
of  superiority,  began  to  read  his  lecture;  but  soon, 
quite  soon,  Sam  changed  his  mind  and  hoped  for 
nothing  but  that  the  skilful  skater  would  keep  his 
balance  on  the  thin  ice. 

"  Rich  for  Ada,"  and  here,  as  Sam  saw  it,  was 
a  "  stroke  "  indeed  if  Adams  were  successful  to  the 
end  and  if  at  the  end  he  would  listen  sensibly  to 
Sam. 

Adams  was  in  little  danger.  He  was  of  Oxford, 
London,  the  world,  and  his  audience  of  Manches- 
ter. And  he  stooped  to  conquer  with  a  lecture  that 


106  THE  MARBECK  INN 

was  a  mosaic  of  advances  and  retreats,  of  blazing 
indiscretions  and  smug  apologies,  of  audacities  and 
diffidence. 

Sam  watched  the  audience  keenly,  and  it  would 
not  be  unjust  to  say  that  the  audience  gloated. 
Not  all  of  them  gloated,  but  as  a  whole,  as  an  audi- 
ence, they  lapped  up  Adams'  lecture  like  mother's 
milk.  He  called  it  frankness  and  gave  unnecessary 
detail,  he  had  an  appearance  of  honest  indignation 
and  a  reality  of  bathing  in  mud  with  relish.  It 
was  abominable  but  diabolically  clever ;  indecent  to 
the  core,  it  artfully  evaded  anything  to  warrant  a 
police  court  charge  of  indecency;  it  was  foulness 
cloaked  in  piety,  marching  under  the  banner  of 
Reform.  He  was  a  crusader  in  masquerade,  flash- 
ing beneath  their  guard  of  British  reticence  a  rapier 
whose  hilt  was  a  cross. 

Adams  found  a  curious  satisfaction  in  standing 
there,  like  a  penitent  at  a  Salvation  Army  meeting, 
pretending  to  an  immense  personal  knowledge  of 
evil  which  was,  happily,  impossible,  and  he  de- 
lighted in  the  presence  of  a  cleric  in  the  chair. 
The  thing  developed,  ,for  him,  into  an  exciting 
game,  a  contest  of  his  wits  with  Peter's.  He  had 
carried  his  audience,  but  the  chairman  sat  aloof 
and  dubious.  If  Peter  saw  through  him,  he  had 
lost;  if  not,  he  won.  For  Peter  he  read  the  con- 
demnatory passages  with  vibrant  earnestness,  and 
for  Peter  he  read  as  if  reluctantly,  conscience-im- 
pelled, the  details  of  his  evidence. 

Sam  caught  the  infection,  too,  but  hardly  as  a 
game.  He  hung  on  Peter's  judgment  with  a  deep 
anxiety,  watched  Peter  flush  and  shuffle  in  his  chair, 
saw  him  take  snuff  nervously,  trembled  at  the  mo- 


GERALD  ADAMS,  SOCIOLOGIST         107 

ment  when  Peter  seemed  about  to  interrupt,  sighed 
with  relief  when  Peter  sat  back  silently  again  and 
waited  feverishly  for  the  chairman's  speech. 

There  would  probably  have  been  little  doubt 
about  Peter's  verdict  had  Adams  been  an  ordinary 
Concentric  lecturer  and  a  member  of  the  Society. 
But  he  was  neither,  and  was  there  by  invitation. 
And  he  was  not  only  of  Oxford,  Peter's  University, 
but  brilliantly  of  Oxford,  of  Balliol,  with  academic 
honours  thick  upon  him.  If  Peter  thought,  as 
Adams  spoke,  that  he  ought  to  call  him  to  order,  he 
remembered  that  Adams  was  a  Double  First,  and 
desisted.  He  couldn't  be  a  hypocrite  —  because  he 
had  won  the  Ireland.  He  was  terribly  in  earnest 
now  —  because  he  had  won  the  Greek  Verse  Prize. 
He  was  single-minded,  chivalrous,  braving  the  mis- 
apprehension of  the  scurrilous,  open  and  honest  — 
because  he  was  a  Fellow  of  Balliol. 

It  did  not  matter  to  Peter  that  Adams'  father  was 
the  richest  parishioner  in  St.  Mary's;  it  mattered 
even  less  that  Adams  was  exquisitely  dressed  in 
exactly  the  shade  of  grey  appropriate  to  an  ardent 
crusader.  ("Look  at  his  damned  clothes,"  Reed 
had  whispered  to  Stewart.  "  Hasn't  he  thought  it 
out?"  He  had:  his  clothes  were  chaste  if  his  lec- 
ture wasn't. )  But  scholarship  did  matter  to  Peter, 
whose  other  name  was  Charity,  and  once  he  had 
decided  that  Gerald  was  sincere,  that  all  he  said 
was  subordinate  to  and  justified  by  high  purpose,  he 
was  generous,  and  the  more  generous  because  he 
had  doubted. 

"  The  subject  of  Mr.  Adams'  lecture,"  he  said, 
"  is  like  nettles :  if  it  is  not  handled  boldly,  it  stings. 
I  have  nothing  but  praise  for  the  courage,  the  down- 


108  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Tightness,  the  earnestness  of  his  treatment  of  this 
distressing  evil.  I  think  that  we  have  all  been 
deeply  stirred  by  his  instances  of  man's  inhumanity 
to  women.  As  a  churchman  I  feel  a  special  re- 
sponsibility and,  may  I  say,  a  special  gratitude  to 
Mr.  Adams  for  his  study  of  this  subject.  Medi- 
cine, as  we  all  know,  has  its  martyrs,  its  research 
workers  who  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  health  of 
their  fellowmen.  Mr.  Adams,  who  has  examined 
this  social  sore  so  thoroughly,  at  what  cost  in  pain 
to  himself  only  the  most  sensitive  amongst  us  can 
guess,  deserves  to  be  ranked  with  the  martyrs  of 
science.  .  .  ."  And  so  on,  doubly  handsome  because 
he  felt  ashamed  of  himself  for  doubting  Gerald's 
honesty,  and  made  amends. 

Adams  had  won  his  game,  hands  down.  He 
thought  the  old  boy  gloriously  funny  and  he 
thought  Sam  Branstone,  who  rose  when  Peter  sat 
down,  funnier  still.  Sam  believed  in  striking  while 
the  iron  was  hot :  he  didn't  want  Peter  to  have  the 
opportunity  of  changing  his  mind  when  he  came  to 
think  things  over  coolly. 

Sam  began  by  congratulating  himself  on  the 
good  fortune  that  had  been  his  in  having  been  the 
school-fellow  of  the  distinguished  Mr.  Adams. 
Adams  gazed  hard  at  Sam  through  his  austere 
pince-nez  and  was  observed  perceptibly  to  start. 
"  Gad,"  he  was  thinking,  "  it's  that  lout,  the  por- 
ter's son."  But  he  liked  Sam's  flattery  very  well. 
Sam,  it  appeared,  had  been  so  deeply  impressed  by 
Mr.  Adams'  admirable,  indeed  eloquent  and  mov- 
ing address,  and  by  the  chairman's  very  just  eulogy 
of  it,  that  he  thought  it  would  be  a  tremendous  pity 
if  so  arresting,  so  well-written  a  paper  failed  to 


GERALD  ADAMS,  SOCIOLOGIST         109 

reach  a  wider  audience  than  that  before  which  it 
had  been  read.  They  had  been  waiting  for  this 
paper ;  its  appeal  was  wide ;  the  urgency  of  its  need, 
instinct  in  every  word  of  it,  was  emphasized  by  the 
chairman's  remarks.  He  had,  therefore,  a  prac- 
tical proposal  to  make.  The  paper  ought  to  be 
printed,  and  if  Mr.  Adams  could  spare  him  a  few 
moments  after  the  meeting,  Sam  hoped  that  he 
would  let  him  arrange  the  matter. 

He  sat  down  amongst  great  applause.  Under  its 
cover  Stewart  whispered :  "  You  inimitable  ass !  " 

Sam  looked  at  him  in  pained  surprise.  "  I  want 
to  see  that  paper  in  print,"  he  declared  indignantly. 

The  debate  meandered  in  the  usual  futile  way. 
Few  had  anything  to  say,  but  many  liked  the  sound 
of  their  own  voices  and  indulged  their  preference 
at  length,  till  both  speakers  and  talkers  had  taken 
their  innings  and  Sam  was  able  to  go  up  to  the 
platform.  Peter  had  not  changed  his  mind  and 
was  complimenting  Adams  in  his  simple,  charming 
way. 

It  ought,  no  doubt,  to  have  made  Adams 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself,  but  it  did  not.  It 
hardened  his  cynicism  so  that,  wThen  Sam  came  up, 
all  he  was  thinking  was :  "  I've  gulled  the  parson. 
Now  to  bounce  the  porter's  son." 

"How  are  you,  Branstone?  "  he  asked.  "Glad 
to  meet  you  again." 

"And  I  you,"  said  Sam.  They  shook  hands. 
"  Have  you  had  time  to  {hink  of  what  I  proposed?  " 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Adams,  which  is  the 
usual  way  of  beginning  a  lie,  "  I'd  thought  of  send- 
ing my  little  paper  to  one  of  the  Reviews  —  the 
Fortnightly  or  the  Contemporary." 


110  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Excellent,"  said  Peter.  "- 

Sam  could  have  kicked  him.  "  I  venture  to  dif- 
fer," he  said.  "  The  chief  object  should  be  to  reach 
as  wide  a  public  as  possible.  My  own  idea  was  to 

do  it  by  itself  in  the  form  of  a "  he  was  going 

to  say  "  pamphlet,"  but  altered  it  to  "  brochure." 
He  thought  it  sounded  more  attractive.  "  In  the 
heavy  reviews  it  would  be  read  by  comparatively 
few,  and  it  would  not  stand  alone  as  in  a  brochure. 
It  would  take  its  place  along  with  other  articles. 
And  I  have  heard  that  contributors  to  the  reviews 
are  not  paid  highly." 

Adams  had  not  thought  of  payment  at  all,  but  he 
thought  of  it  now,  with  zest.  He  was  rich,  but  the 
idea  of  despoiling  the  porter's  son,  who  had  had 
the  assurance  to  go  to  school  with  him,  struck  him 
as  the  crowning  move  in  a  jolly  game.  This  was, 
transcendently,  his  night  for  winning. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  which  was  true. 
"  I  suppose  I  should  get  about  twenty  pounds  for 
it." 

"  I  will  give  you  twenty-five,"  said  Sam. 

"  Sam !  "  protested  Peter.  He  approved  the  mo- 
tive (as  he  understood  it),  but  considered  the  offer 
reckless  from  a  young  man  who  contemplated  mat- 
rimony. 

"  Twenty-five  pounds,"  repeated  Sam  firmly. 

"  Well,"  laughed  Gerald,  quite  unable  not  to 
laugh  at  the  idiot's  persistence,  "  if  you're  as  keen 
on  doing  good  as  all  that,  I'll  take  the  offer." 

"  Bight,"  said  Sam.     "  I'll  settle  it  at  once." 

He  went  to  the  chairman's  table  and  made  out  a 
form  of  assignment  of  copyright.  He  had  a  little 
knowledge  of  the  law,  and  it  was  a  dangerous  thing 


GERALD  ADAMS,  SOCIOLOGIST         111 

—  for  the  other  fellow.  But  both  Sam  and  Adams 
went  home  that  night  in  a  state  of  cherubic  self- 
satisfaction. 

"  What  a  game?  "  thought  Adams.  "  And  what 
an  ass ! " 

Curiously,  the  thoughts  of  Sammy  Branstone 
were  not  dissimilar.  He  had  this  advantage  over 
Adams:  that  Adams  had  read  his  paper  and  had 
not  watched  his  audience  all  the  time.  Sam  had 
watched  the  audience  and  thought  twenty-five 
pounds  a  cheap  price  for  that  paper. 

He  slept  on  it,  and  awoke  next  day  with  con- 
fidence in  his  investment  undisturbed,  but  the  news 
which  awaited  him  at  the  office  shook  him  at  first. 
It  was  one  thing  to  see  a  profitable  side-line  in  the 
publication  of  Adams'  address  and  another  to  be 
suddenly  obliged  to  regard  the  copyright  of  that 
paper  as  his  one  sound  asset.  He  feared,  in  cold 
daylight,  that  it  was  not  quite  sound  enough  for 
that. 

Yet  what  had  happened  did  not  come  as  a  com- 
plete surprise.  Sam  knew  Travers'  habits  and 
knew  that  men  of  his  habits  are  liable  to  die  sud- 
denly. Travers  had  died  in  the  night,  and  Sam 
was  very  angry. 

He  told  himself  that  he  had  no  luck  wth  people's 
deaths.  His  father  had  died  too  soon  for  Sam,  and 
now  Travers  was  dead  just  when  Sam  had  become 
engaged,  and  when  he  had  undertaken  a  speculation 
which,  however  high  his  hopes  of  it,  was  after  all 
speculative. 

An  estate  agent's  business  is  largely  personal 
and,  if  there  is  no  obvious  successor,  no  heir  ap- 
parent already  in  training  for  the  succession,  is  apt 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  fall  to  pieces  when  its  head  dies.  The  process 
of  disintegration  in  this  case  had  set  in  long  ago; 
drink  had  begun  what  death  now  ended;  and  there 
was  no  heir.  Lance  Travers  had  decided  for  medi- 
cine and  was,  on  the  material  side,  little  affected 
by  his  father's  death,  since  Travers  had  bought  him 
a  practice  a  year  earlier  somewhere  in  the  South, 
and  the  neighbourhood  was  proving  healthily  vale- 
tudinarian. 

The  office  was  not  a  cheerful  place  that  day. 
Men  estimated  their  savings  and  balanced  them 
against  the  probable  weeks  of  unemployment  before 
they  found  new  places.  A  few  of  them,  no  doubt, 
might  hope  to  "  go  with  "  the  business  to  whom- 
ever bought  it ;  and  they  wondered  who  would  buy 
and  which  of  them  would  be  engaged  by  the  pur- 
chaser. 

They  fancied  Branstone's  chances,  and  so,  in 
fact,  did  Sam,  but  it  was  all  in  the  air  and  ex- 
ceedingly disturbing  just  when  he  had  given  him- 
self so  much  else  to  think  about.  Even  if  he  did 
move  with  the  business,  it  could  only  be  as  a  clerk. 
He  lost  the  advantage  of  Travers'  friendliness  and, 
besides,  he  was  not  sure  that  anybody  would  think 
the  business  worth  buying.  Travers  had  no  right 
to  die. 

Then  the  thought  struck  him  that  he  was  taking 
it  lying  down.  He,  a  lad  of  mettle,  was  whining 
like  these  gutless  clerks  in  the  office.  He  was  be- 
traying his  lucky  star.  Death,  even  Tom  Bran- 
stone's,  had  not  been  forbiddingly  unkind  to  him. 
Tom's  death  had  led  him  indirectly  to  the  office,  to 
Minnifie,  the  Concentrics,  Ada,  and  he  began  to  see 
in  Travers'  death  the  possibilities  of  good.  It 


GERALD  ADAMS,  SOCIOLOGIST         113 

might  be  the  finger  of  fate,  pointing  him  away 
from  the  office  which  had  served  its  turn  to  a  new 
dispensation  to  be  arranged  by  the  collaborators, 
Sam  and  Providence,  upon  the  rock  of  Adams'  pa- 
per. 

They  carried  on  the  routine  work  of  the  office  as 
men  under  sentence  of  death  do  little,  ordinary 
things  and  find  a  solace  in  them.  Then,  late  that 
afternoon,  Lance  Travers  came.  He  had  travelled 
since  early  morning,  had  been  home,  seen  his  fa- 
ther's doctor  and  his  father's  solicitor  and  was  now 
come  to  see  Sam.  They  sat  in  Travers'  private  of- 
fice, where  the  blinds  were  drawn,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Travers'  son,  who  owed  his  life  to  him,  Sam 
was  conscious  of  a  deeper  feeling  than  he  had  ever 
known  before.  He  was  no  longer  angry  because 
Travers  had  died,  but  mourned  him  honestly. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Lance  presently,  "  did  my 
father  ever  tell  you  about  his  will  ?  " 

"His  will!"  said  Sam.  "No.  Why  should 
he?" 

"  I  thought  he  might  have  done,"  said  Lance. 
"  He  made  it  last  year  after  he  bought  me  my  prac- 
tice. He  thought  then  that  he  ought  to  do  some- 
thing for  you,  but  he  didn't  expect  to  live  long  and 
he  put  it  in  his  will.  There's  a  thousand  pounds 
for  you." 

Sam  took  it  nicely.  "  I'd  rather,"  he  said,  "  that 
he  were  still  alive ;  "  and,  at  the  moment,  he  meant 
it. 

But  he  had  been  right.    It  was  the  finger  of  fate. 


CHAPTER  XI 

UNDER  WAY 

As  a  simple  matter  of  course,  Lance  offered  Sam 
the  first  refusal  of  his  father's  business,  but  was  not 
surprised  when  Sam  declined  to  think  of  it. 

Sam  was  far  more  surprised  at  himself  than 
Lance  at  Sam.  Lance  had  never  looked  upon  estate 
agency  as  a  desirable  profession,  whereas  Sam  had 
been  bored  with  its  routine  without  losing  his  re- 
spect for  its  utility,  and  only  yesterday  he  would 
have  jumped  at  the  chance  of  owning  the  business. 
He  heard  with  astonishment  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice  politely  refusing  the  offer,  but  having  re- 
fused he  did  not  tamper  with  his  swift  decision. 

The  fact  is,  one  supposes,  that  what  might  be 
called  the  quick-firing  part  of  his  intelligence  had 
absorbed  and  reacted  to  the  fact  of  his  thousand 
pounds  before  the  whole  of  him  was  properly  aware 
of  it.  At  any  rate,  he  refused,  and,  on  reflection, 
approved  his  refusal. 

His  speculation  in  Gerald  Adams  wore  a  differ- 
ent aspect  now  that  he  was  a  capitalist.  "  Money," 
as  he  had  remembered  once  before,  "  breeds  money," 
and  he  doubted  if  Travers'  business,  robbed  of 
Travers'  genial  personality,  were  fecund  enough  for 
the  pace  of  money-breeding  he  anticipated.  Per- 
haps, too,  there  was  something  in  the  thought  that 
the  Travers'  agency  was  dead  man's  shoes,  while, 


UNDER  WAY  115 

win  or  lose,  the  idea  of  publishing  Adams'  lecture 
was  his  own  invention. 

Another  thing  that  happened  to  him  with  his 
legacy  was  the  feeling  that  he  had  regained  caste; 
he  belonged  again  with  his  old  school-fellows. 
"  How  many  of  them,"  he  thought,  "  can  lay  hands 
at  a  moment's  notice  on  a  thousand  pounds?  "  and 
walked  erectly  through  the  street  where,  naturally, 
since  he  had  not  met  him  in  eight  years  until  last 
night,  he  encountered  Stewart. 

"  Hullo,"  said  Stewart,  "  how's  the  patron  of 
letters?  And  would  a  drink  be  any  use  to  you?  " 

Sam  hesitated.  Did  the  way  to  the  society  of 
the  Olympians  lie  through  the  doors  of  the  public- 
house?  Stewart  was  undeniably  Olympian :  he  had 
the  air,  the  manner,  the  clothes  of  well-assured  suc- 
cess. He  had  a  lightness  and  a  poise  that  excited 
Sam's  envy.  He  had  style,  this  youth  who  might 
be  anything,  but  who,  Sam  cynically  thought,  had 
probably  not  paid  for  his  distinguished  clothes, 
while  Sam  was  the  owner  of  a  thousand  pounds. 
He  was,  thereby,  Olympian  in  quiet  fact,  which 
need  not  be  shrieked  from  the  house-tops,  as 
Stewart  had,  apparently,  to  shriek.  Sam  was,  and 
there  was  the  possibility  that  Stewart  only  ap- 
peared to  be.  It  gave  him  strength  to  refuse.  Not 
from  principle,  but  from  economical  prejudice  Sam 
was  a  teetotaller. 

"  I  don't  take  alcohol,"  he  said. 

"  It's  never  too  late  to  mend,"  said  Stewart. 
"  Still,  there's  a  cafe  here,  and  we'll  drink  coffee. 
It's  bad  for  our  hearts,  but  Balzac  wrote  the 
f  Comedie  Humaine '  on  black  coffee,  so  there  may 
be  something  in  the  vice,  though  it  isn't  a  habit  of 


116  THE  MARBECK  INN 

mine.  Two  black  coffees,  Sophie,"  he  ordered  from 
the  waitress. 

"  If  it  isn't  a  habit  of  yours,"  asked  Sam,  "  how 
do  you  come  to  know  the  waitress  by  name?  " 

"  My  dear  ass !  "  said  Stewart  pityingly. 

"  Do  you  call  them  all  Sophie?  " 

"  Only  when  it's  their  name.  Your  name  is 
Sophie,  isn't  it?  "  he  said  as  the  girl  returned  with 
their  coffee. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

Stewart  appreciated  Sam's  astonishment.  "  I 
know  I'm  showing  off,  but  I  like  it.  If  you  see  a 
girl  with  an  idiotic  silver  brooch  made  up  of  the 
letters  SOPHIE  you  can  assume  that  it's  her 
name,  and  not  the  name  of  her  best  boy.  Simple, 
when  you  know  how  it's  done,  like  all  first-rate 
conjuring." 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  her  brooch,"  said  Sam. 

"I  had.  That's  the  difference.  Still,  it  isn't 
fair  to  blame  you.  I'm  a  professional  observer." 
Sam  took  Stewart  to  mean  that  he  was  a  detective, 
but  hadn't  time  to  ask  for  confirmation,  because 
Stewart  asked  instead  :  "  And  what,  by  the  way, 
are  you?  "  And  threw  him  into  some  embarrass- 
ment by  the  question.  What,  indeed,  at  the  mo- 
ment was  he? 

"  Doesn't  your  observation  tell  you?  "  he  fenced. 

"  It  told  me  last  night  that  you're  a  considerable 
lunatic.  Did  you  buy  that  stuff  of  Adams'  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"  Thought  I  saw  you  in  the  act  as  I  went  out. 
Obviously,  then,  you're  a  tripe  merchant." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Sam,  "  whether  you  could  help 
me,  Stewart.  Seriously,  I  mean." 


UNDER  WAY  117 

"  In  the  tripe  trade?  " 

"  I  want  very  much  to  meet  a  journalist."  He 
thought  a  detective  ought  to  know  journalists. 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  this  is  a  cafe.  It  isn't  a 
bar.  What  do  you  want  a  journalist  for?  " 

"  I  will  tell  that  to  the  journalist." 

"  If  you  want  to  start  a  paper  and  you're  looking 
for  an  editor,  you  needn't  look  further  than  me. 
There  have  been  candid  moments  in  my  life  when  I 
have  called  myself  a  journalist.  At  present,  I  edit 
the  Manchester  Warden,  but  I'm  open  to  convic- 
tion." He  didn't  quite  edit  that  paper  —  yet,  but 
reported  for  it  at  six  pounds  a  week.  He  did  not 
know  shorthand,  but  he  quoted  Joseph  Conrad  and 
Henry  James,  correctly  and  incongruously,  when 
he  wrote  a  notice  of  a  music-hall  performance. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Sam  astutely,  "  that  when  I 
said  a  journalist,  I  meant  something  very  different 
from  you,  but  I  will  tell  you  how  I  stand  and  per- 
haps you  will  advise  me.  Last  night,  as  you  know, 
I  bought  Adams'  paper.  I  gave  him  twenty-five 
pounds  for  it." 

"  Lunacy,"  said  Stewart,  "  is  a  mild  word  for 
your  complaint.  Twenty-five  shillings  would  be  a 
top  price  for  it  in  a  friendly  market." 

"  To-day  I  reached  the  office  to  learn  that  my 
employer  had  died  suddenly.  You  remember 
Lance  Travers?  It  was  his  father,  and  with  his 
death,  for  all  practical  purposes  the  business  comes 
to  an  end.  Well,  you  see  my  position." 

Stewart  quoted  Sheridan :  "  *  The  Spanish  Fleet 
thou  canst  not  see,  because  it  is  not  yet  in  sight.' 
And  much  the  same  applies  to  your  position,  my 
lad.  Its  postal  address  is  the  Womb  of  Time." 


118  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Sam.  "  And  I  may  add  that 
I  am  engaged  to  be  married." 

"  I  can  admire  thoroughness,"  said  Stewart. 
"  You  omit  none  of  the  essentials." 

"Now,  with  it  all,"  said  Sam,  "I'm  still  too 
proud  to  go  to  Adams  and  ask  him  to  let  me  off  iny 
bargain." 

"  And  it  wouldn't  be  any  use  if  you  did,"  said 
Stewart.  "  He'd  laugh  at  you." 

"  I  can  believe  it  of  him.  But  I'm  landed  with 
his  paper.  It  has  cost  me  twenty-five  pounds.  I 
meant  to  print  it,  and  I  mean  to  print  it,  but  I 
mean  now  to  sell  it  when  it  is  printed."  Sam  left 
Stewart  to  suppose  that,  had  Travers  not  died, 
he  would  have  distributed  that  pamphlet  free. 
"  Money,"  he  added,  "  is  a  necessity." 

He  had  taken  the  right  line.  Stewart's  instinc- 
tive generosity  was  touched,  and  he  meant  to  give 
this  lame  dog  a  lift  over  the  stile.  "  I  see  where 
your  journalist  comes  in.  All  right,  Branstone, 
you  can  count  on  me." 

"  On  you?  "  said  Sam.  "  Oh,  I  couldn't  ask  it 
of  you." 

"  You  didn't  ask,"  replied  Stewart  naively.  "  I 
offer.  I  may  edit  the  Manchester  Warden,  but 
Zeus  nods  sometimes,  'busmen  have  been  known  to 
take  a  holiday,  and  there  is  a  paper  called  the  Sun- 
day Judge  in  whose  chaste  columns  I  have  written 
under  the  name  of  Percy  Persiflage.  Send  me  a 
proof  of  that  pamphlet  and  Percy  shall  stamp  upon 
it.  He  will  say  that  no  decent  person  could  read 
it  without  being  revolted,  and  the  pamphlet  will 
boom.  It's  the  Sunday-paper  public  that  you  want, 
and  .  .  .  No.  Percy  shall  not  stamp.  Percy 


UNDER  WAY  119 

shall  bless.  He  will  be  moved  to  admiration  of 
Mr.  Adams'  earnestness,  he  will  applaud  the  high 
moral  purpose,  and  will  do  the  rest  by  correspond- 
ence. Get  your  sisters  and  your  cousins  and  your 
aunts  to  pitch  in  letters  on  either  side,  and  I'll  see 
they  get  printed.  I  make  this  alteration  because 
of  the  bookstalls." 

"  The  bookstalls?  "  asked  Sam  vaguely. 

"  This  problem  of  distribution,"  said  Stewart  im- 
pressively, "  is  the  most  difficult  question  of  mod- 
ern life.  The  producer  is  here,  you ;  the  consumer 
(we  hope)  is  everywhere,  and  the  problem  is  to 
bring  your  pamphlet  to  the  thirsting  consumer. 
The  answer  is  the  bookstall,  but  the  bookstalls  are 
cautious.  When  I  say  bookstalls  I  mean  the  right 
bookstalls.  You  will  never  see  your  money  back  if 
the  only  bookstalls  which  will  exhibit  your  pamph- 
let are  those  which  sell  atrociously  printed  paper- 
backed editions  of  '  Nana '  and  '  Fanny  Hill.'  You 
must  flourish  on  the  bookstalls,  and  they  banned 
*  Esther  Waters/  The  bookstalls,  Branstone,  are 
going  to  call  for  tact,  and  tact  shall  begin  with 
Percy's  appreciation." 

"  Or  earlier,"  said  Sam. 

"  Earlier?  » 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  the  bookstalls,  but  this  may 
help  there,  as  well  as  in  other  ways.  I  mean,  as 
far  as  Manchester  is  concerned,  and  if  we  get  it  on 
the  stalls  here,  they  can't  very  well  refuse  it  in 
other  places." 

"  Manchester  being  Manchester,  it  isn't  likely," 
said  Stewart.  "  What's  your  idea?  " 

"  Only  this,"  said  Sam,  and  showed  him  his  pro- 
posed cover  for  the  pamphlet. 


120  THE  MARBECK  INN 


THE  SOCIAL  EVIL 

Being  an  Address 
By 

GERALD  ADAMS,  M.A., 
Fellow  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford. 

As  Head  before  the  Concentric  Society 

with 

THE  KEV.  PETER  STRUGGLES 
in  the  Chair. 


Stewart  looked  at  it,  then  he  looked  at  Sam,  and 
Sam  seemed  to  him  very  little  like  a  lame  dog  now. 
He  whistled  loudly.  "  You'll  get  your  money  back, 
my  lad,"  he  said.  "  But  this  is  rough  on  Peter." 

"  Mr.  Struggles  approved  of  the  lecture." 

"I  wonder  if  he  will  approve  of  this?"  said 
Stewart. 

"  He  can't  go  back  on  his  word,"  said  Sam. 
"  Besides,  I'm  engaged  to  his  daughter." 

"  The  thing  that  troubles  me,"  said  Stewart  ad- 
miringly, "  is  that  I  took  you  for  a  harmless  lunatic. 
I'm  only  a  journalist  myself,  with  one  foot  in  the 
Manchester  Warden  and  the  other  in  the  Sunday 
Judge.  I'm  a  Tory  on  Sundays  and  a  Liberal  on 
weekdays.  I  gave  up  honesty  when  I  gave  up  be- 
ing young,  and  I  thought  I  knew  the  ropes  by  this 


UNDER  WAY 

time.  But  when  I  think  that  I  took  you  for  a  guile- 
less innocent,  I  want  to  go  into  a  corner  and  kick 
myself  hard." 

Sam  found  this  rather  alarming.  He  knew  that 
his  use,  or  misuse,  of  Peter's  name  was  cunning,  but 
began  to  regret  that  he  had  shown  Stewart  his  pro- 
posed cover.  "  But  I  get  my  review  in  the  Judge?  " 
he  asked  hardily. 

"  My  son,"  said  Stewart,  "  you  do.  I've  spent 
sixpence  on  coffee  and  half  an  hour  on  you. 
There's  good  copy  in  this  and  I  can't  afford  to  waste 
it.  I've  my  living  to  earn,  and  Gerald  Adams  de- 
serves the  worst  he's  going  to  get.  At  the  same 
time,  I'll  allow  myself  the  luxury  of  telling  you  that 
yours  is  a  lowdown  game." 

"  We  didn't  make  the  world  what  it  is,  did  we?  " 
said  Sam. 

"And  neither  you  nor  I  will  leave  it  any  better 
than  we  found  it,"  said  Stewart,  prophesying  rashly 
with  the  boundless  cynicism  of  his  twenty-five 
years.  "  The  worst  of  coffee,"  he  went  on,  finishing 
his  cup,  "  is  that  it  makes  you  thirsty.  I'm  going 
across  the  road  for  a  drink.  Do  you  have  one  with 
me?" 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Sam.  "  I  have  to  see  a 
printer." 

"  Oh,  yes.  Well,  why  not  the  Judge  Press?  I 
daresay  I  could  get  you  in  there  on  the  ground 
floor." 

"  But  they  are  not  quite  the  right  people  for  this. 
They  print  sporting  papers,  and " 

"  You'll  die  from  overheated  bearings  in  your 
brain-box,"  said  Stewart.  "  You  think  of  every- 
thing." 


122  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Sam  had,  at  least,  thought  that  a  printer  (how- 
ever obscure  by  comparison  was  the  Judge  Press, 
whose  works  were  a  small  town  in  themselves)  who 
issued  a  religious  paper  was  better  for  his  purpose 
than  the  printers  of  the  Sunday  Judge,  Sporting 
Notions  and  the  Football  Times.  He  went  to  Car- 
ter, Meadowbank  &  Co.,  who  were  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy,  but  had  the  advantage  of  printing 
Christian  Comfort  and  the  Church  Child's  Weekly, 
and  arranged  with  them  to  print  five  thousand 
copies  of  Adams'  paper.  Carter,  who  was  the  whole 
firm,  looked  askance  at  the  title,  but  when  Sam 
pointed  out  that  the  Rev.  Mr.  Struggles  had  ap- 
proved of  the  contents,  Carter  succumbed  at  once, 
and  did  not  even  attempt  a  protest  when  Sam  in- 
structed him  to  print  on  the  whole  five  thou- 
sand: 

"  This  first  edition  of  one  thousand  cpoies  is  is- 
sued at  sixpence.  The  price  for  future  editions  will 
be  one  shilling.  Samuel  Branstone,  Publisher." 

Carter's  dingy  office  was  decorated  with  the  chief 
products  of  his  firm,  texts,  the  stock-in-trade  of 
commercialized  religiosity.  Well  handled,  there 
was  money  in  texts,  but  Carter  was  an  old  man 
with  declining  powers  and  a  conservative  mind. 
Meadowbank,  who  had  looked  after  the  distributive 
side  of  the  business,  was  lately  dead,  and  Carter's 
nightly  prayer  was  that  the  concern  might  last  his 
time.  As  things  were  promising,  it  seemed  un- 
likely, but  here  was  Sam  with  an  order  for  him  and 
no  disposition  to  beat  him  down  in  price.  Carter 
did  not  like  the  instruction  to  describe  five  thou- 
sand copies  as  one  thousand,  and  he  didn't  like  the 
subject  of  the  pamphlet,  but  he  wanted  business, 


UNDER  WAY  123 

and  be  couldn't  conceive  of  a  pirate  sailing  under 
the  flag  of  Mr.  Struggles. 

Sam  rammed  that  home,  feeling  the  man's  hesita- 
tion. "  I  think  it  probable,"  he  said,  "  that  Mr. 
Struggles  will  preach  a  sermon  on  this  pamphlet. 
Perhaps  I  might  tell  you  that  I  am  going  to  be  his 
son-in-law." 

That  settled  Carter,  and  he  took  the  order.  He 
knew,  and  was  sensitive  to,  the  influence  of  Peter 
Struggles,  curate.  He  knew  that  in  the  parish  of. 
St.  Mary's,  Peter's  smile  counted  for  more  than  the 
vicar's  weightiest  word,  and  that  while  the  vicar 
was  unknown  outside  his  parish,  Peter  had  author- 
ity throughout  Manchester  —  an  authority  which 
had  lately  grown  through  Peter's  refusal  of  pre- 
ferment to  an  easy  living  in  the  country.  It 
hadn't,  of  course,  been  Peter  who  had  told  of  that 
refusal.  He  had  not  told  Ada.  But  it  had  leaked 
out,  and  Manchester,  which  despises  selflessness  in 
men,  honoured  it  in  the  curate;  Mancunians  were 
flattered  by  his  loyalty  to  St.  Mary's  and  by  the 
thought  that  they  were  fellow  citizens  to  saintli- 
ness. 

Emphatically,  the  name  of  Peter  Struggles  on  the 
pamphlet  was  a  clou,  but  Sam  had  not  told  Peter  of 
it  yet,  and  he  must  do  it.  He  could  not  afford  an 
accident,  and  Peter,  he  considered,  was  manage- 
able. 

Ada  met  him  at  the  door  with  a  bright  smile,  and 
raised  expectant  lips,  but  he  shook  his  head,  touch- 
ing her  shoulder  tenderly,  and  passed  in  front  of 
her  into  the  room  so  that,  when  she  followed,  her 
face  expressed  the  anxiety  he  desired.  He  entered 
himself  as  a  man  crushed  by  grief. 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

"What  is  it,  Sam?"  she  asked.  "What's  the 
matter?  " 

Peter  closed  "  Plotinus  "  reluctantly :  he  never 
found  time  enough  for  reading,  and  here  was  one  of 
his  few  evenings  interrupted.  He  had  the  thought, 
feeling  it  ungenerous,  that  interruptions  of  this 
kind  would  end  when  Ada  wras  married. 

"  I've  had  sad  news  to-day.  Mr.  Travers  died  in 
the  night.  It's  .  .  .  it's  rather  a  blow." 

Peter  disdained  priestly  conventionalities.  "  He 
was  a  good  friend  to  you,  Sam." 

"A  second  father,"  said  Sam  carefully,  not  tak- 
ing the  opportunity  of  telling  that  Travers'  friend- 
ship had  lasted  beyond  death.  Perhaps  he  thought 
this  moment  too  sacred  for  the  intrusion  of  a  legacy. 
"  Of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  I've  had  all  day  to  think 
of  it,  and  of  the  difference  this  will  make  to  me  — 
to  us,  that  is,  Ada,  for  you  and  me." 

"  What  difference,  Sam?  "  she  asked  sharply. 

"  It  comes  to  this,"  he  said  dejectedly,  "  that  I 
am  out  of  work  and  competition  is  so  desperate. 
While  he  lived,  I  had  his  friendship  behind  me. 
Now  —  I  don't  say  that  I'm  afraid  to  stand  alone. 
No  doubt  it  will  be  good  for  me  eventually,  but, 
Ada,  you  see  how  it  may  postpone  our  hopes." 

Ada  saw  it.  "  Plotinus  "  took  that  opportunity 
of  slipping  from  Peter's  knee,  and  Peter  saw  it,  too, 
and  sighed.  "  Oh,  Sam !  "  said  Ada. 

"  And,"  said  Sam,  looking  at  Peter  with  a  fine 
affectation  of  guilt,  "  there  is  my  recklessness  of 
last  night.  In  my  then  circumstances,  it  was  ex- 
travagant. To-day  it  looks  worse  than  that." 

"  You  couldn't  know,"  said  Peter  kindly. 

"  No,"  Sam  agreed.     "  I  couldn't  know,  and  I 


UNDER  WAY  125 

have  the  feeling  now  that  I  must  abide  by  what  I 
did." 

"  Very  proper,  Sam,  but  Mr.  Adams  is  not  poor 
and  I  should  think  that  if  you  were  to  go  to 
him " 

"  Oh,  please,"  said  Sam,  "  please  don't  press  me 
to  do  that.  A  bargain,  I  feel  so  strongly,  is  a  bar- 
gain and  should  be  kept  at  all  costs." 

Peter  felt  silently  ashamed  of  himself.  "  You 
are  perfectly  right,"  he  said. 

"  Well,"  said  Sam,  "  that's  how  I  feel,  but  in  a 
sense  I'm  landed  with  the  thing  and  I  propose  to 
go  on  with  it.  As  I  see  it  —  and  I  know  there's  a 
certain  amount  of  inappropriateness  in  thinking 
at  all  of  these  practical  affairs  with  my  benefactor 

so  recently  dead,  but  I  must,  I  must "  he  looked 

at  Ada  and  it  was  understood  that  his  thought  for 
her  excused  all  — "  As  I  see  it,  it's  a  case  for  going 
on  and  trying  to  pull  the  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire, 
so  to  speak.  I  shall  print  that  paper,  and  the  good 
that  I  hoped  to  do  will  not  be  lost  because  my  cir- 
cumstances have  altered,  but  I  shall  make  a  small 
charge  for  it  to  cover  expenses  as  far  as  possible. 
And  as  I  naturally  want  it  to  sell  well,  I  had  the 
idea  of  stating  on  the  cover  that  it  was  first  read 
at  the  Concentrics  under  your  chairmanship.  The 
point  of  that  is  that  all  the  members  were  not  there 
last  night;  it  will  call  their  attention  to  it;  and 
they  will,  I  hope,  buy.  It  makes  certain  of  a  few 
reliable  purchasers." 

"  Quite,  quite,"  said  Peter.  "  It's  an  excellent 
idea.  Though  I  can  hardly  suppose  that  mention  of 
my  name  has  any  value,  the  name  of  the  society 
should  certainly  help." 


126  THE  MARBECK  INN 

His  modesty  was  quite  incurable.  He  had  not 
the  faintest  notion  of  the  wide-spread  influence  of 
Peter  Struggles.  "  I  have  thought  of  little  else  all 
day  but  Mr.  Adams'  paper.  I  wondered  if  it  was 
my  duty  to  speak  of  this  terrible  subject  from  the 
pulpit.  The  Church  ought  not  to  be  silent  or  it 
may  be  thought  to  acquiesce." 

Sam  felt  his  heart  leap  within  him.  "Adams 
thought  frankness  best,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  yes,  at  the  Concentrics.  But  there  are 
difficulties  for  me,  and  perhaps  I  shall  speak  only 
to  the  Young  Men's  Class  at  the  -Sunday  School. 
Though  that,"  he  reflected,  "  is  perilously  near  to 
compromise." 

"  But  what  is  it?"  asked  Ada.  "What  are  you 
talking  about?  " 

Sam  was  silent.  So  was  Peter,  and  the  silence 
grew  till  he  felt  it  a  reproach.  He  looked  at  Sam. 
"  You  see?  "  he  said.,  "  That  is  the  dilemma  of  the 
Church.  I  shall  speak  to  the  young  men,  and,  after 

that  perhaps,  perhaps "  He  glanced  at  Ada. 

"  No,"  he  finished  decidedly,  "  I  must  leave  it  at 
that."  He  was  fifty-six,  and  most  of  his  life  had 
been  lived  under  Victoria  the  Good. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DROPPING  THE  PILOT 

ANNE  lived  for  Sam :  and  if  she  rarely  showed  it,  if, 
for  instance,  it  appeared  sometimes  that  she  lived 
to  make  her  house  the  cleanest  in  the  row,  that  was 
no  more  than  a  symptom  of  her  stoicism.  She 
lived  for  Sam,  and  he  knew  it.  She  belonged  to  a 
race  which  hates  ostentation  like  the  devil  and 
keeps  its  feelings  veiled  behind  a  grim  reserve.  It 
conceals  emotion  as  a  hidden  treasure  and  wears  a 
mask  which  strangers  take  to  indicate  a  want  of 
sensibility.  She  had  not  the  habit  of  caressing 
Sam ;  she  chastened  whom  she  loved ;  and  Sam  was 
very  well  aware  of  the  strength  of  Anne's  love. 

She  was  ready,  at  the  proper  time,  to  give  him  to 
the  proper  woman,  but  she  held  that  Ada  was  not 
the  woman  nor  this  the  time.  She  was  ready  to  go 
her  ways  from  Sam,  and  from  life  itself,  when  he 
made  a  marriage  of  which  she  could  approve,  but 
she  was  not  ready  to  leave  him  to  Ada  Struggles  of 
whom  she  disapproved.  She  was  not  ready  to  die 
for  the  likes  of  Ada  Struggles.  Let  Sam  marry 
Ada,  and  Anne  meant  to  live,  because  some  day  he 
would  have  need  of  her  and,  when  the  day  came,  she 
would  be  there. 

Now,  Sam  would  have  been  pleased  if  he  could 
have  told  Anne  about  the  gamphlet  and  the  legacy. 
He  had  hoped  after  the  Minnifie  affair  that  his  next 
"  stroke  "  would  be  one  of  which  he  could  tell  Anne, 


128  THE  MARBECK  INN 

but  he  did  not  see  this  as  tellable.  She  would  nat- 
urally ask  what  the  pamphlet  was  about,  and  if 
Peter  could  not  speak  of  it  to  his  daughter,  Sam 
could  speak  of  it  even  less  to  his  mother.  And 
as  to  the  legacy,  what  was  the  use  of  mentioning 
that  to  a  woman  who  would  point  out  that  security 
was  only  to  be  had  with  two  and  a  half  per  cent? 
Which  wasn't  at  all  Sam's  notion  of  the  uses  of  a 
thousand  pounds. 

After  all,  he  was  grown  up  and  a  man  does  not 
tell  his  mother  everything.  But  unless  he  is  a 
fool,  he  tells  her  the  things  which  she  is  bound  in 
any  case  to  find  out,  and  if  he  had  foreseen  the 
certainty  of  her  finding  out  he  would,  not  being  a 
fool,  have  told  her  these.  He  did  not  foresee,  be- 
cause Anne  did  not  read  newspapers,  but  she  had 
neighbours  who  did  and  who  told  her,  with  com- 
ments, of  the  storm  which  presently  broke  out  in 
the  columns  of  the  Sunday  Judge,  and  of  Mr. 
Travers'  will,  which  received  a  small  paragraph  in 
the  paper  when  it  was  proved. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  you  and  me  didn't  go 
in  for  secrets,"  she  said  to  him.  "  You've  not  had 
much  to  say  to  me  of  late  .and  I've  not  seen  much  of 
you,  either,  with  the  hours  you're  keeping,  but  I'd 
put  it  down  to  love.  I  know  a  man's  not  rational 
when  he's  courting,  but  it  seems  there's  a  lot  about 
my  son  that  I've  to  learn.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
about  Mr.  Travers?  Did  you  think  I'd  steal  the 
money  off  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  mother,  but  I  meant  to  come  to 
you  with  a  finished  tale,  not  one  that's  only  just 
begun.  I'm  engaged  in  a  business  affair  of  which 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  when  it  was  complete." 


DROPPING  THE  PILOT  129 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  see.  You're  risking  your 
money.  If  you  came  out  on  the  right  side,  you'd 
tell  me  about  it,  and  if  you  lost  you'd  forget  to  tell 
me.  Are  you  losing?  " 

"  It's  early  days  to  say." 

"  Then  maybe  I'm  still  in  time  to  nip  this  in  the 
bud.  What's  this  about  the  Sunday  Judge?  " 

"  Have  you  seen  it?  "  he  asked. 

"  Aye.     You're  the  talk  of  the  street." 

"  That's  splendid,"  he  let  slip  before  he  was 
aware  of  it. 

"  Splendid !  There's  a  gentleman  writing  to  the 
paper  to  say  that  you're  trading  in  immorality." 

"  I  wrote  that  letter  myself,"  grinned  Sam. 

"  You  did  what?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  never  make  you  understand." 

"  I  doubt  you  won't.  Lying  to  me  like  that. 
Expecting  me  to  believe  you  write  to  the  paper 
about  yourself  and  call  yourself  hard  names. 
And  the  letter's  signed  '  Truth-teller,'  too.  It's 
printed  in  the  paper  that  my  son  has  lifted  the  lid 
from  the  cesspool  and  let  loose  a  smell  to  make  de- 
cent people  vomit." 

"  Yes.     I  know.     Advertising  is  a  coarse  art." 

"  Your  name's  blackened  for  ever.  And  it's  my 
name,  Sam,  and  the  name  your  father  gave  me. 
It's  the  name  of  honest  folk  and " 

"Mother,  mother,  don't  I  tell  you  that  it's  all 
advertisement?  " 

"What  you  tell  me  and  what  I  can  believe  are 
coming  to  be  two  different  things.  I  know  what 
an  advertisement  in  the  paper  is  and  I  know  what 
a  letter  is.  This  is  a  letter." 

Sam  felt  the  hopelessness  of  further  argument. 


130  THE  MARBECK  INN 

She  had  a  simple-minded  faith  in  the  integrity  of 
newspapers  and  the  printed  word,  but  he  could  at 
least  show  that  the  word  could  contradict  itself. 
"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  it's  a  letter,  and  so  is  this." 

He  took  a  copy  of  the  paper  from  his  pocket. 
Stewart  had  kept  his  word,  no  great  feat  since  he 
had  a  good  idea  of  what  his  editor  supposed  the 
Sunday  public  to  want,  and  a  column  of  fervent 
correspondence  flared  under  the  heading  of  "  The 
Social  Evil.— Is  the  Pamphlet  Justified?"  Sam 
chose  a  letter  which  described  Adams  as  a  crusader 
and  Branstone,  his  publisher,  as  a  high-souled  so- 
cial reformer  courageously  risking  misapprehension 
for  principle  and  the  right,  calling  the  endorsement 
of  the  Rev.  Peter  Struggles  to  witness  in  proof  of 
his  irreproachable  motives.  "  Well,"  said  Sam, 
"  am  I  to  be  misapprehended  after  all,  and  by 
you?  " 

"  You  told  me  you  wrote  the  other  letter,"  she 
said.  "  Don't  you  mean  that  you  wrote  this  one?  " 

"  I  don't,"  he  said  truthfully.  He  wrote  his,  at- 
tacking himself,  on  one  side  of  Stewart's  desk, 
while  Stewart  at  the  other  defended  him.  It  had 
been  great  fun. 

"  And  what,"  she  asked,  "  is  the  business  affair 
you  say  you're  engaged  on?  " 

"  Why,"  he  said  unguardedly,  "  it's  this." 

"  Then  I  don't  misapprehend  at  all,  my  son.  I 
apprehend  very  well.  And  you've  worked  Peter 
Struggles  into  it.  Was  that  why  you  got  engaged 
to  Ada?  " 

"  Mother !  "  he  protested.  "  Doubt  me  if  you 
like,  but  you  must  not  doubt  Mr.  Struggles.  He 
surely  is  above  suspicion." 


DROPPING  THE  PILOT  131 

"  He's  keeping  bad  company  just  now,"  said 
Anne,  "  and  I  doubt  you've  been  too  clever  for 
him." 

Sam  chose  to  be  offended.  "  Is  that  what  you 
think  of  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  That  you're  clever.  Aye.  I  think  that  all 
right.  I've  known  it  since  the  time  when  you 
tricked  a  parcel  of  schoolboys  out  of  a  house  of 
furniture  and  put  George  Chappie  into  it.  You're 
clever  in  the  wrong  places,  Sam.  When  you  were 
at  school,  you  were  clever  out  of  school.  You're  at 
business  now  and  you  ought  to  be  clever  in  honesty, 
and  I've  the  notion  that  you're  being  clever  in  dis- 
honesty." 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  this  only  shows  how  right 
I  was  not  to  tell  you.  It's  the  old  story.  Women 
don't  understand  business." 

"  I  know.  Business  is  a  pair  of  spectacles  that 
makes  black  into  white,  but  I  don't  wear  spectacles 
myself.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me  what  you're  doing 
with  that  thousand  pounds?  " 

"  I  told  you  it  isn't  decided  yet.  But  if  the  sales 
of  that  pamphlet  go  up  this  week  as  they  did  last, 
I'm  going  into  the  publishing  business  with  it." 

"  So  that  you  can  publish  more  of  the  same 
sort?" 

"  If  I  can  get  them.  There's  a  lot  of  money  in 
it." 

"  Sam,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  is  that  all  you're 
caring  about?  " 

"  You  told  me  yourself  that  Ada  was  not  the  wife 
for  a  poor  man."  He  considered  that  a  very  neat 
score,  to  seem  to  make  Anne  responsible,  but  Anne 
was  not  to  be  deceived  by  any  such  seeming.  As 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

she  saw  it,  Ada  had  corrupted  Sam,  Ada  was  the 
motive  of  this  misuse  of  his  cleverness;  and  the 
bitterness  for  Anne  was  doubly  poignant.  She  be- 
lieved in  Sam,  with  a  faith  which  had  never  swerved 
in  spite  of  her  disappointment  in  his  school  career; 
but  she  realized  now  that  he  had  been  marking  time 
in  Travers'  office,  that  it  was  Ada  and  not  she  who 
had  quickened  his  energies  to  rapid  action.  Ada 
had  quickened  them,  where  under  Anne  they  had 
lain  dormant  but  the  quickening  had  been  corrupt. 
It  came  from  Ada,  poisoned  at  the  source,  and  took 
to  poisonous  ways. 

They  had  touched  bottom  now  and  reached  es- 
sentials. "  Sam,"  she  said,  "  I  was  joking  like 
when  I  said  a  man's  not  rational  when  he's  in  love. 
But  it  was  a  true  word  spoken  in  jest.  You're  not 
rational  or  you  wouldn't  be  doing  these  things  and 
making  a  byword  of  the  name  of  Branstone,  and 
the  reason  you're  not  rational  is  Ada.  If  you  were 
in  love  with  a  good  woman,  you  could  no  more  do 
dishonourable  things  than  fly.  But  you're  in  love 
with  a  bad  woman  and  it  leads  to  bad  results. 
Sam,  do  you  think  I  like  to  tell  you  that  you've 
made  a  mistake?  And  do  you  think  I  don't  know? 
Lad,  lad,  I  love  you,  and  I've  never  reckoned  myself 
a  fool.  Choose  now,  I'm  not  the  sort  of  fool  to  be 
jealous  just  because  you  get  wed.  I'd  none  be 
jealous  of  the  right  lass.  Sam.  I'd  take  her  and 
welcome  her  and  know  she  had  a  better  right  to  you 
than  me.  But  Ada  Struggles  has  no  right:  she's 
mean  and  grasping  and  she's  small  in  every  way 
there  is.  She's " 

"  Stop,  mother.  Don't  forget  that  I  am  marry- 
ing Ada." 


DROPPING  THE  PILOT  133 

"And  nothing  that  I  say  will  alter  you?  Sam, 
she'll  go  on  as  she's  begun  by  sending  you  to  this." 
She  put  her  hand  on  the  lurid  polemics  of  the  Sun- 
day Judge.  "  She'll  drive  you  down  and  down. 
You  may  make  money  and  you  may  be  rich,  but 
there'll  be  a  curse  on  your  riches  and  on  all  you  do, 
and  Ada  Struggles  is  the  name  of  the  curse." 

Sam  attempted  a  small  levity.  "  That  will  be  all 
right,"  he  said.  "  She's  going  to  change  her  name." 

Anne  shook  her  head.  "  A  change  of  name  'ull 
none  change  Ada's  nature.  It's  the  best  part  of 
your  life  that's  before  you,  and  life  with  Ada  spells 
ruin.  I'm  not  telling  you  what  I  think.  It's  what 
I  know,  and  I  ask  you,  Sam,  to  heed  my  words." 

"  I'm  heeding  them,"  he  said,  "  but  I  know  you're 
wrong." 

"  That's  the  last  you've  got  to  say?  " 

"  I'm  sorry  we  don't  agree,  mother." 

"  Agreeing's  nowt,"  she  said,  "  and  I'm  nowt 
against  your  happiness.  See,  Sam,  I'll  prove  it. 
There's  a  thought  at  the  back  of  your  mind  that 
I've  nothing  against  Ada  but  a  grudge  because  she's 
come  between  you  and  me.  I  say  that  girl's  no 
good  for  you,  and  I  say  I'll  do  anything  to  force 
you  to  see  it.  There's  nowt  of  myself  in  this  and 
maybe  this  will  make  you  believe  it." 

There  was  a  good  fire  in  the  room  and  she  put  her 
hand  into  it.  Sam  was  alert  enough  to  drag  her 
away  before  much  damage  was  done,  and  he  had  oil 
on  the  hand  in  a  moment. 

"  Don't  fuss,"  said  Anne,  "  but  tell  me  what  you 
think." 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  you're  plumb  crazy  — 
with  jealousy." 


134  THE  MARBECK  INN 

It  was  not  craziness,  but  fanatic  devotion  to  an 
idea :  and  the  idea  was  Sam,  Sam's  happiness,  Sam's 
future.  She  put  her  hand  into  the  fire  hoping  to 
convince,  and  she  would  have  sat  on  the  fire  if  she 
had  thought  the  larger  act  would  carry  a  fuller 
conviction.  But  he  did  not  need  to  be  convinced 
that  she  objected  to  Ada ;  the  point  was  that  her  ob- 
jections were  unfounded,  and,  in  the  face  of  Ada's 
sublime  and  stunning  merits,  idiotic. 

One  cannot  put  a  hand  into  the  fire  without  suf- 
fering for  it,  and  Anne  was  suffering  acutely.  Her 
face  was  drawn  with  pain  and  her  lips  were 
trembling  uncontrollably,  but  her  voice  was  firm. 

"  I've  done  my  best  to  save  you,  Sam.  If  you've 
nothing  better  to  say  than  that,  you  and  me  have 
come  to  a  parting." 

"  Then,"  said  Sam,  "  we've  come,"  and  turned 
his  back  on  her.  He  thought  she  would  come 
round,  that  she  would  get  over  her  attack  of 
frenzied  jealousy.  It  was  idle  threat  to  talk  of  a 
parting.  Why,  she  was  dependent  on  him,  and  in 
more  ways  than  one.  He  housed  and  kept  her,  but, 
more  than  that,  she  needed  him.  His  presence  was 
the  breath  of  life  to  her.  He  knew  that,  and  he  let 
her  go! 

Of  course,  he  thought  she  would  come  back,  with 
a  sharp  lesson  well  learnt.  She  had  to  learn  that 
he  was  grown-up,  of  an  age  to  act  for  himself  and 
choose  and  think  without  her  tutelage.  Only,  she 
did  not  come  back.  She  went  to  Madge  and  stayed 
with  Madge;  and  the  terms  on  which  she  stayed 
were  her  terms.  "  I  furnish  the  room,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  pay  you  a  rent  for  it.  Also,  I  pay  for  what 
I  eat." 


DROPPING  THE  PILOT  135 

She  paid.  At  the  age  of  fifty-two  the  mother  of 
Sam  Branstone,  of  Branstone  and  Carter,  and  the 
mother-in-law  of  George  Chappie,  of  the  Chappie 
Window-Cleaning  and  Bill  Posting  Company  (a 
smaller  affair  than  its  name,  but  the  source  of  a 
regular  five  pounds  a  week),  was  a  charwoman  on 
three  days  out  of  the  seven,  and  it  was  not  lack  of 
offers  which  limited  her  to  three  days,  but  the  fact 
that  she  paid  her  way  on  three  days'  result.  She 
kept  other  people's  houses  as  clean  as  she  had  kept 
her  own. 

It  was  suggested  to  George  Chappie  that  it  was 
hardly  decent  in  him  to  allow  his  mother-in-law  to 
go  out  charring  at  her  age  —  a  prosperous  man  like 
him.  "  I  know,"  he  was  reported  to  have  replied, 
"  and  we've  tried  all  ways  we  can.  But  you  can't 
argue  with  Mrs.  Branstone." 

"  She's  one  of  the  old  sort,  isn't  she?  "  said  his 
gossip,  who,  perhaps,  endured  a  mother-in-law  of 
another  kind. 

"  All  that,"  said  George  succinctly. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   INTERMITTENT   COURTSHIP 

ONLY  by  long  service  does  one  become  an  artist,  but 
one  becomes  married  by  a  simple  ceremony.  It  is 
the  tragedy  of  marriage,  which  is  the  most  difficult 
of  all  the  arts,  that  most  people  come  to  it  without 
apprenticeship.  Perhaps  the  popularity  of  widows 
as  brides  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  widow  is  a 
widow:  that  she  has  been  broken  in  to  marriage: 
that  she  has  not  everything  to  learn:  that  one,  at 
any  rate,  of  the  contracting  parties,  is  expert. 
There  is  much  to  be  said  for  the  policy  of  the  "  trial 
trip." 

Courtship,  if  intimate  enough,  may  be  a  fairish 
substitute,  bowdlerized,  as  it  were,  for  a  "  trial 
trip,"  but  when  Sam  married  Ada  he  knew  pitiably 
little  about  her. 

He  thought  that  she  was  wonderful.  Not  only 
had  he  to  think  it,  but  he  actually  did  think  it.  He 
had  to  think  it  because  only  for  a  prodigy  among 
women  could  he  have  treated  his  mother  as  he  did. 
He  had  thought  her  crazy  when  she  put  her  hand 
into  the  fire,  but  he  knew  it  was  heroic.  If  she  were 
crazy,  it  was  for  love  for  him,  and  at  the  core,  he 
loved  her  too  and  felt  ashamed  of  himself,  but  Ada 
stood  between  them,  and  he  was  not  going  to  give 
up  Ada.  Then  he  was  busy,  time  wore  on,  custom 
blunted  the  prick  of  conscience,  and  it  finally  be- 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      137 

came  a  habit  either  not  to  think  of  Anne  at  all,  or 
to  think  comfortably  of  her  as  happy  enough  with 
Madge. 

And  he  actually  thought  Ada  wonderful  because 
the  conditions  of  his  courtship  fought  for  her.  He 
was  visibly  prospering;  he  liked  prosperity;  it  was 
Ada  who  had  initiated  his  prosperity ;  and  she  was 
glamorous  for  that.  Again,  he  was  very  busy  in 
those  days  with  the  first  steps  of  his  new  business, 
too  occupied  to  play  the  diligent  lover,  and  saw  her 
very  fitfully.  So  seen,  she  did  not  lose  the  wonder 
of  surprise,  but  came  upon  him  freshly  with  each  of 
their  meetings,  able  to  parade  for  each  some  new 
attraction  from  her  slender  stock  of  charm.  She 
kept  their  intercourse  egregiously  correct,  and  he 
thought  her  mystery  was  infinite.  She  hid  her 
shallowness  behind  affected  modesty,  knowing  that 
an  intimate  courtship  would  discover  to  him  that 
there  was  nothing  to  discover,  and  attracted  by 
aloofness.  It  was  immensely  clever  in  its  short- 
winded  way :  a  cleverness  that  lasted  the  course  of 
courtship,  but  evaporated  when  the  tape  —  the  altar 
—  was  reached.  It  did  not  seem  necessary  to  Ada 
to  go  on  being  clever  once  that  ring  was  on  her 
finger.  She  was  married,  she  had  achieved:  she 
was  clever  for  the  spurt,  and  had  no  cleverness  left 
for  the  Marathon  Race.  And  Sam  had  many  pre- 
occupations in  those  days  which  prevented  him 
from  thinking  too  much  about  Ada. 

If  he  was  dull  about  his  courtship,  his  wits  were 
sharp  enough  for  other  matters.  He  had  the  satis- 
faction, almost  from  the  day  of  its  issue,  of  seeing 
the  pamphlet  sell  steadily.  Very  quickly  it  ceased 
to  be  a  case  of  getting  his  money  back,  and  became 


138  THE  MARBECK  INN 

merely  a  question  of  how  many  cents  per  cent  he 
was  going  to  make.  His  first  edition  of  five  thou- 
sand (the  soi-disant  thousand)  was  rapidly  ex- 
hausted, and  the  presses  of  Carter  Meadowbank 
worked  overtime  to  cope  with  the  demand.  He  cast 
bread  upon  the  waters  by  sending  copies  to  every 
name  in  the  Clergy  List  and  every  Member  of  Par- 
liament ;  and  did  not  cast  in  vain.  Free  advertise- 
ment was  lavished  upon  him.  Somehow,  he  had 
found  one  of  those  times  when  the  social  conscience 
is  stirred:  he  published,  without  knowing  it,  op- 
portunely, and  the  diabolic  cleverness  of  Gerald 
Adams'  writing  steered  him  safely  past  the  rocks  of 
the  Public  Prosecutor.  It  seemed  only  to  stimulate 
demand  when  he  raised  the  price  to  a  shilling. 

He  had  no  further  trouble  with  the  pamphlet.  It 
sold  itself,  but  sitting  still  watching  the  wheels  go 
round  did  not  appeal  to  Sam,  who  had  a  thousand 
pounds  to  multiply.  He  hadn't  quite  the  hardi- 
hood to  believe  that  he  could  multiply  his  thou- 
sand as  rapidly  as  he  had  the  twenty-five  which  he 
paid  Adams,  but  he  felt  that  he  was  launched  as  a 
publisher  and  had  nothing  to  publish. 

His  thoughts  were  diverted  from  that  solecism 
one  day  when  he  went  into  Carter's  printing-office 
to  speed  up  the  foreman.  The  foreman  admitted 
that  the  pace  could  be  improved.  "  But  I  dunno, 
sir,  that  the  boss  wants  it  improved.  There's  noth- 
ing in  to  follow  this  job  of  yours.  You  might  say 
you've  been  the  saving  of  Mr.  Carter." 

Sam  was  thoughtful  for  a  minute.  He  had  not 
looked  upon  himself  as  the  saviour  of  Mr.  Carter 
and  did  not  appreciate  that  character  when  it  was 
thrust  upon  him.  He  went  into  Carter's  office. 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      139 

"This  little  tract  of  mine,"  he  said  ("tract" 
seemed  the  right  description  in  that  text-hung 
room) ,  "  is  selling  remarkably  well,  and  the  demand 
increases.  Now,  I've  nothing  to  say  about  the  past. 
I  came  in  here  a  total  stranger  and  you  quoted  me 
accordingly.  But  it's  only  fair  to  warn  you  that 
I  have  gone  into  prices  with  other  printers  and  I 
may  find  it  necessary  to  make  a  change." 

Carter  made  no  effort  to  hide  his  dismay.  "  I 
hope  you  won't  do  that,  Mr.  Branstone.  At  least, 
give  me  a  chance  of  revising  my  price." 

"  Once  bitten,"  said  Sam,  "  is  twice  shy,  and  you 
don't  deny  that  you  bit." 

"  But  surely  business,"  argued  Carter,  "  is  busi- 
ness." 

"  It  is,"  said  Sam  grimly,  "  and  if  you'll  answer 
me  a  few  questions  on  the  understanding  that  this 
is  a  business  interview  and  I'm  not  being  imper- 
tinently inquisitive,  I  shall  be  obliged." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Carter. 

"  Thank  you.  How  old  are  your  printing- 
presses?" 

"  Twenty  years." 

"  Consequently  they  are  almost  hopelessly  out  of 
date?" 

Carter  had  a  tenderness  for  those  presses.  They 
had  been  young  when  he  was  young,  were  bought 
when  the  world  smiled  on  him  and  his  business  had 
its  hedyay.  They  had  kept  him  and  he  could  not  be 
disloyal  now.  "  I  believe  that  they  have  printed 
your  tract  efficiently,  Mr.  Branstone,"  he  defended 
them. 

"  Oh,  there's  life  in  the  old  dogs  yet,"  said  Sam. 
"  I'm  not  proposing  to  make  scrap4ron  of  them." 


140  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  As  they  belong  to  me,"  said  Carter  tartly,  "  it 
would  not  make  such  difference  if  you  did  propose 
it." 

"  Therefore,"  said  Sam,  "  I  don't  propose  it  — 
yet.  Please  remember  that  I'm  talking  business. 
Do  you  care  to  tell  me  what  that  text  cost  to  pro- 
duce and  what  you  get  for  it?  " 

Carter  did  not  care,  but,  though  he  wondered  at 
himself,  he  told.  "And  that?"  Sam  asked,  point- 
ing to  another ;  and  again  Carter  told. 

"  Then,"  said  Sam,  "  there  are  two  religious 
papers  which  you  print  for  the  proprietors. 
What ?" 

"  Young  man,"  interrupted  Carter,  "  are  you  pro- 
posing to  buy  my  business?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sam  coolly,  "  only  to  become  your 
partner  in  it.  What  profit  were  you  going  to  tell 
me  you  made  on  the  papers?  " 

Carter  told :  he  was  too  stupefied  to  do  anything 
else.  "  Um,"  said  Sam.  "  It  isn't  much." 

"  They  are  a  good  work,"  said  Carter,  and  Sam 
looked  at  him  sharply,  but  the  old  man  was  per- 
fectly sincere.  It  was  good  work  to  print  religious 
magazines  and  he  did  it  for  next  to  nothing. 

"  Well,"  said  Sam,  "  thank  you.  Now  I  won't 
mince  matters:  When  I  came  along  with  my  — 
tract,  I  enabled  you  to  postpone  filing  your  petition, 
but  it  was  only  a  postponement,  and  if  you'll  look 
facts  in  the  face  the  one  big  fact  for  you  is  bank- 
ruptcy." 

"  The  Lord  will  provide."  Carter  had  lived  from 
hand  to  mouth  for  many  months  in  that  belief. 

"  If  you  like  to  look  at  it  that  way.  He  has  pro- 
vided: He  has  provided  me.  I  will  make  you  a 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      141 

good  offer,  Mr.  Carter.  I  will  introduce  five  hun- 
dred pounds  capital  into  the  business  for  a  half- 
share  in  the  plant,  goodwill  and  future  profits  of 
this  concern.  That  is,  the  printing  business. 
What  I,  as  publisher,  do  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you." 

"...  I  must  think  it  over,"  said  Carter;  but 
they  both  knew  that  he  had  already  decided  to 
accept. 

"  The  Lord,"  Carter  was  thinking,  "  has  pro- 
vided." Sam,  on  the  contrary,  was  thinking,  "  I 
may  or  may  not  be  a  fool  to  go  into  this  without 
getting  an  accountant's  report  on  the  books,  but  I 
believe  in  rapid  action,  and  if  I'd  offered  too  high 
a  price  I'm  certain  that  he's  imbecile  enough  to 
have  told  me." 

It  remained  to  find  something  to  print,  and  he 
wanted  Stewart's  advice,  but,  with  the  idea  of  be- 
ing first  on  the  side  of  the  angels,  went  to  see  Peter 
Struggles.  The  battle  which  had  raged  round  the 
pamphlet  had  left  Peter  untouched,  even  though 
more  than  one  of  the  clergy  who  received  it  from 
Sam  had  thought  it  their  duty  to  write  to  Peter's 
bishop.  The  bishop  failed  to  see  a  case  for  dis- 
ciplinary measures :  Peter  might  have  been  sinned 
against  but  he  had  not  sinned.  And  the  Sunday 
Judge  was  read  by  neither  Peter  nor  his  bishop. 
(The  Church  is  notoriously  out  of  touch  with  mod- 
ern life,  but,  after  all,  it  is  hardly  reasonable  to 
expect  the  Church  to  compliment  its  rival,  the  Sun- 
day Press,  by  reading  it.) 

Nevertheless,  Peter  had,  on  reflection,  felt  some 
wavering  doubts  about  the  pamphlet.  His  inter- 
mittent shrewdness  threw  a  flickering  light  through 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  haze  of  his  charity  and  gave  him  moments  of 
discomfort. 

Sam's  attitude  during  this  call  was  admirably 
calculated  to  resolve  his  doubt.  He  wanted,  with 
an  eye  to  the  future,  to  make  sure  of  Peter,  whose 
name  he  might  require  another  day,  and  was  ready, 
even  if  it  were  not  immediately  profitable,  to  pla- 
cate Peter  now.  He  explained  that  he  had  joined 
forces  with  Mr.  Carter,  and  at  once  acquired  merit 
in  Peter's  eyes.  Carter  was  irreproachable.  He  did 
not  explain  by  what  means  he  had  been  able  to  join 
Carter  and  it  did  not  occur  to  Peter  to  ask.  Sam 
was  not  going  to  tell  Peter,  who  would  tell  Ada, 
of  his  legacy.  If  she  found  out,  as  Anne  had  found 
out,  he  could  not  help  it,  but,  meantime,  it  was  his 
secret.  Ada,  like  Anne,  belonged  to  the  sex  which 
had  no  understanding  of  business. 

"  And  the  point,"  said  Sam,  "  with  a  business  like 
Mr.  Carter's,  is  to  use  it  for  good.  I  take  it  that 
the  texts  do  good,  but  perhaps  they  are  only  for 
the  simple-minded.  I  hope  I  don't  despise  people 
for  their  simplicity,  but  my  own  taste  runs  rather 
to  books  and  I  think  you  will  agree  with  me." 

Peter  agreed,  with  a  quotation  which  rather 
dashed  Sam;  he  had  an  idea  that  poetry  did  not 
sell. 

" '  Poets  are  the  trumpets  which  sing  to  battle. 
Poets  are  the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the 
world.' " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam.  "  Quite  so.  But  isn't  poetry 
going  to  the  opposite  extreme?  I  had  the  thought 
of  something  more  direct.  Good  prose  with  a  good 
moral." 

"  Excellent,"  said  Peter,  off  again. 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      143 

" '  Were  not  God's  laws, 
His  gospel  laws,  in  olden  time  held  forth 
By  types,  shadows  and  metaphors  ? '  " 

"  Of  course  they  were,"  said  Sam,  wondering 
when  Peter  would  close  his  mental  dictionary  of 
quotations  and  come  down  to  business,  "  and  that 
quotation  is  very  apt  because  I  was  thinking  of 
classics.  English  classics,  you  know,"  he  explained 
hurriedly,  "  and  classics  because  they  are  not  copy- 
right." 

"  And  have  stood  the  test  of  time,"  said  Peter. 

"Yes.  Do  you  think  you  could  propose  a  list? 
I  should  like  to  know  that  the  first  books  I  publish 
had  been  selected  by  you.  I  don't  think  they  ought 
to  be  exactly  theological,  but  they  must  be  good  in 
every  sense  of  the  word." 

"  Why  not  begin  with  the  book  from  whose  in- 
troduction I  just  quoted?" 

"  Why  not  indeed?  "  said  Sam,  who  hadn't  the 
faintest  idea  of  the  source  of  the  quotation. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Peter.  "  feuppose  you  put 
that  down  for  one." 

Same  made  vague  scratches  on  paper.  He  had  a 
bookish  reputation  to  sustain  and  he  was  not  going 
to  betray  ignorance  prematurely.  "  Then,"  said 
Peter,  "  there  is  Law's  '  Serious  Call  to  a  Devout 
and  Holy  Life.' " 

"  I'm  letting  myself  in  for  something,"  thought 
Sam,  but  he  wrote  it  down. 

"'The  Imitation  of  Christ,'  and  '  The  Little 
Flowers  of  St.  Francis,'  "  Peter  went  on. 

"  I  think  those  should  be  enough  to  begin  with," 
said  Sam  hurriedly. 

"  Four,   isn't   it? "    said    Peter,    recapitulating. 


144  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  The  <  Pilgrim's  Progress '  " ( "  Thank  God," 

thought  Sam,  "  I  needn't  give  myself  away.") 

"  Yes,  four,"  he  interrupted,  reading  the  now 
completed  list.  "  And  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you." 

He  wasn't,  though,  quite  sure  about  it.  He  had 
"  nobbled  "  Peter,  but  he  feared  those  books  would 
be  a  millstone  round  his  neck.  There  might  be  a 
steady  sale  for  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  as  a  prize, 

but  the  others !  Still,  he  need  not  print  many 

copies  of  them,  and  —  consoling  thought  —  they 
would  be  good  window-dressing  for  his  list.  He 
hoped  it  would  include  other,  very  different,  books. 

"  I'm  sorry  Ada  is  out,"  Peter  was  saying,  and 
Sam  was  rather  startled  to  realize  that  he  had  not 
missed  her.  But  he  was  sure  of  his  position  with 
her :  it  was  his  position  for  her  which  he  had  to  con- 
solidate. He  proceeded  to  consolidate  it  by  going 
in  search  of  Stewart,  and  found  him  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  him,  in  a  bar. 

"  I  want  your  advice,"  said  Sam. 

"  Whisky  for  the  gentleman,  Flora,"  said  Stew- 
art. "  That's  my  advice  and  you'll  get  no  other  till 
you've  taken  this." 

Sam  took  it.  Business  is  business  and,  beyond 
that,  his  thrifty  prejudices  were  less  necessary  now. 

"  You're  not  unteachable,"  said  Stewart.  "  It's 
a  point  in  your  favour.  The  proper  thing  when 
you've  drunk  that  is  to  ask  me  if  I  will  have  an- 
other. My  reply  will  be  in  the  affirmative  and  we 
shall  then  retire,  with  sustaining  refreshment,  into 
that  corner,  where  I  will  advise  you  for  as  long  as 
you  can  continue  to  buy  whisky  for  me  and  drink 
level.  I  hate  a  shirker." 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      145 

Sam  told  him  of  his  partnership  with  Carter. 
"  I'm  always  troubled  about  you,"  said  Stewart. 
"  I  can  never  make  up  my  mind  whether  you're  too 
clever  to  live  or  whether  you  were  born  with  luck 
instead  of  brain.  Obviously,  you  will  publish 
novels." 

"  There  are  so  many  kinds,"  said  Sam. 

"No.  Only  two.  Mine  and  the  rest.  But  I 
suffer  from  honesty.  Therefore  I  tell  you  that  my 
novel  has  been  refused  by  every  publisher  in  Lon- 
don. It  is  waiting,"  he  said  hopefully,  "  for  a  man 
with  courage.  The  difference  between  it  and  the 
Yellow  Book  is  that  my  book  is  yellow." 

"  I  see,"  said  Sam.  "  But  I  have  gone  into  the 
publishing  trade  to  make  my  living." 

"  On  the  whole,"  decided  Stewart,  "  you  are  more 
knave  than  fool.  And  you  would  call  it  the  pub- 
lishing trade.  It's  a  benighted  world,  but  there  are 
still  some  publishers  who  aren't  in  trade  —  beyond 
the  midriff.  Do  you  seriously  come  to  me  to  ask 
what  sort  of  novels  to  publish?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  The  sort,"  he  said,  "  that  is  written  for  nurse- 
maids by  people  who  ought  to  be  nursemaids." 

"  That's  jealousy,"  said  Sam.  "  They  get  pub- 
lished and  you  don't." 

"  Perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Stewart.  "  But 
I've  always  heard  that  seeing  is  believing.  Do  you 
ever  go  to  the  theatre?  " 

"  Not  often." 

"  It's  a  pity,  because  if  you  did,  I've  a  tragedy  in 
blank  verse  that  you  might  care  to  publish.  It  is 
great  art  and  will  never  be  produced.  Still,  I'm  a 
philanthropist  to-night  and  you  will  come  to  the 


146  THE  MARBECK  INN 

theatre  with  me.  I  happen  to  be  going  for  the 
Warden." 

"Are  you  a  dramatic  critic  for  the  Warden? " 
asked  Sam,  rather  awed. 

"  I'm  a  reporter,  old  son.  This  isn't  the  kind  of 
play  they  waste  a  critic  on.  Drink  up,  and  we'll 
go." 

Sam  found,  to  his  relief,  that  he  was  able  to  go 
and  decided  he  had  a  strong  head.  The  theatre  was 
crowded  when  they  reached  it  and  Stewart  was 
young  enough  to  sit  self-consciously  in  one  of  the 
two  seats  kept  for  the  Manchester  Warden.  Dra- 
matic criticism  was  taken  seriously  on  that  jour- 
nal ;  at  least  two  of  the  paper's  regular  critics  were 
men  of  genius,  and  Stewart  hoped  that  he  might  be 
mistaken  for  one  of  them.  But  the  audience  that 
night  was  not  the  kind  which  interests  itself  in  the 
lions  of  the  higher  journalism;  rather  it  justified 
the  contemptuous  reference  to  drama  as  the  "  art 
of  the  mob."  It  would  have  made  a  sincere  demo- 
crat weep  for  his  convictions.  "  Behold  them," 
said  Stewart.  "  The  Public." 

Sam  beheld  them  more  than  he  beheld  the  play. 
He  reminded  himself  that  he  was  there  on  business, 
to  be  shown  something  which  Stewart  wanted  him 
to  see,  and  if  he  had  not  the  gift  of  detachment,  he 
assumed  it. 

When  Adams  had  read  his  paper  to  the  Concen- 
trics,  Sam  had  listened  but  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
audience.  In  a  darkened  theatre,  the  audience  was 
more  difficult  to  watch,  but  he  could  feel  its  quick 
response  to  the  play,  could  hear  its  ready  laughter 
and  its  quite  eager  ears.  Emphatically,  here  was  a 
play  which  seized  its  audience,  gripped  them, 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      147 

tickled  them,  beslavered  them,  throttled  them,  did 
with  them  what  it  liked  and  when  it  liked;  all  to 
their  immense  and  vociferous  delight.  He  tried  to 
keep  his  aloofness,  to  see  how  it  was  done,  to  tear 
the  heart  out  of  this  mystery.  Here  was  something 
which  the  public  wanted;  he  had  only  to  diagnose 
it,  and  the  Open  Sesame  to  fortune  was  his. 

He  couldn't  do  it.  Detachment  slipped  from 
him,  never  to  return  till  the  curtain  fell.  He 
wasn't  a  superman,  immune  from  other  men's  emo- 
tions. The  play  took  hold  of  him  and  swayed  him 
with  the  rest.  He  tried  resistance,  vainly;  told 
himself  that  he  was  here,  not,  as  these  others  were, 
for  pleasure,  but  to  learn,  to  learn;  and  the  play 
gripped  him  the  harder  for  his  attempt  to  take  it 
coldly. 

At  the  end,  Sam  was  applauding  wildly  while 
Stewart  watched  him  with  cynical  amusement. 
"  Caught  you  all  right,"  he  said,  "  and  by  way  of  a 
confession  I'll  own  that  the  damned  thing  nearly  got 
me  once.  Rum  place,  the  theatre,  isn't  it?  But," 
he  grew  more  serious,  "  I've  to  write  about  that, 
write  without  being  libellous  about  that  maudlin, 
sentimental,  erotic,  religious  trash.  It's  enough 
to  make  a  man  give  up  journalism  and  take  to  some- 
thing honest,  like  coal-heaving.  But  I'm  forget- 
ting. I  brought  you  here  to  teach  you  something. 
Have  you  learnt  it?  That's  a  play,  but  the  same 
thing  applies  to  a  novel.  You  find  novels  with 
'  The  Sign  of  the  Cross '  in  them,  my  boy.  Queasy 
sentimentality  to  sicken  a  bee,  and,  for  the  rest, 
don't  forget  that  Jesus  died  for  you  to  make  money 
out  of  novels.  This  play  makes  me  blasphemous, 
but  I'm  doing  the  devil's  advocate  to  you  to-night, 


148  THE  MARBECK  INN 

so  it's  all  in  the  picture.  When  I've  finished  my 
notice  I  think  I'll  try  a  '  short '  on  '  The  Tradesman 
Publisher  '  or  l  The  Dignity  of  Letters.'  It  will  be 
good  for  my  conscience." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  said  Sam.  "  I'll  reply  to  it, 
with  a  list  of  the  classics  I  am  going  to  publish." 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Stewart,  "  you  rather  sicken 
me.  I  am  speaking  of  the  Manchester  Warden,  not 
the  Sunday  Judge.  Good-night." 

But  the  vacillations  of  a  journalist  with  a  foot  in 
two  camps  and  an  idealistic  standard  which  he 
hardly  pretended  to  take  seriously  himself  left  Sam 
unimpressed.  The  play  and  Stewart's  description 
of  its  essence  had  given  him  furiously  to  think.  He 
imagined  that  he  knew  the  sort  of  novel  he  wanted 
and  he  was  not  troubled  by  Stewart's  disease  of 
dual  standards.  Sam  had  one  standard,  the  suc- 
cess standard ;  and  anything  else  was  muddle-head- 
edness.  At  the  same  time  he  felt  most  grateful  to 
Stewart  who  had  advertised  the  pamphlet  and  now 
presented  him  with  a  policy. 

It  was  a  policy,  but  not  one  for  immediate  appli- 
cation. Festina  lente  was  his  watchword  for  the 
moment,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  putting  new  life 
into  the  sales  of  texts  and  to  the  issue  of  the 

"  Branstone  "J1  Classics."  They  were,  one  might 
note  in  passing,  the  Branstone  "I"  Classics:  his 
name  loomed  large  and  the  names  of  their  authors, 
the  insignificants  like  &  Kempis  and  Bunyan,  were 
properly  small;  and  he  put  the  sign  of  the  cross 
between  the  Branstone  and  the  Classics.  He  in- 
tended it  to  be  his  trade-mark,  and  if  it  were  his 
trade-mark,  why  not  use  it?  It  infringed  nobody's 
copyright. 


THE  INTERMITTENT  COURTSHIP      149 

Amongst  it  all,  he  had  little  enough  time  for  Ada, 
and  she  knew  how  much  she  gained  by  being  a  lux- 
ury instead  of  a  habit.  But  Sam  was  not  engaged 
for  the  sake  of  being  engaged,  and  as  soon  as  he 
knew  he  had  made  no  mistake  in  his  business  ven- 
ture was  eager  to  be  married.  There  were  no  ob- 
jections from  Ada.  This  intermittent  courtship,  in 
which  his  duties  as  a  lover  took  second  place  to  his 
activities  as  a  business  man,  suited  Ada  well,  but 
marriage,  finality,  the  bond  suited  her  better. 

Even  to  the  end  of  that  engagement  it  was  things 
for  Ada  which  preoccupied  him,  rather  than  Ada 
herself,  and  he  took  the  matter  of  furnishing  seri- 
ously—  from  a  business  point  of  view,  interested 
less  in  the  furniture  he  bought  than  in  the  discounts 
he  might,  by  this  means  or  that,  secure.  He  suf- 
fered the  usual  surprise  at  the  cost  of  mattresses 
and  kitchen  equipment,  but,  to  Ada,  he  appeared 
royally  lavish.  Ada  did  not  know  of  his  legacy: 
she  knew  that  Anne  had  told  her  on  the  top  of  a 
fantastic  tram-car  that  Sam  had  earned  two  pounds 
ten  a  week  with  Travers,  and  the  scale  of  this  fur- 
nishing did  not  square  with  what  a  man  could  save 
out  of  two  pounds  ten  a  week.  It  followed  in  Ada's 
mind  that  Anne  had  lied  to  her,  malignantly  mis- 
representing Sam's  position  to  frighten  her;  and 
the  breach  between  Anne  and  Ada,  which  never  had 
much  chance  of  closing,  was  permanently  open. 

One  does  not  have  old  connections  with  an  estate 
agency  without  being  able  to  rent  a  good  house 
cheaply.  She  was  going  to  be  mistress  of  a  house 
which  fell  little  short  of  the  dreams  of  her  boarding- 
school  days.  It  was  certainly  "  stylish  " ;  she  was 
not  sure  that  it  was  not  positively  "  smart." 


150  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Madge  wept  on  the  night  before  her  wedding. 
Ada  did  not  weep.  She  was  too  busy  hugging  her- 
self because  she  had  surmounted  the  perils  of  court- 
ship. She  had  accomplished  her  aim  in  life.  She 
was  going  to  be  married. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HONEYMOONERS 

ADA  was  married  in  white  satin,  though  Peter  sold 
books  to  do  it  and  her  trousseau  lacked  essentials. 
It  depends,  though,  on  one's  point  of  view.  Ada 
thought  white  satin  essential,  while  another  might 
have  put  underclothing  first.  But  it  is  fitting  to 
wear  a  crown  at  a  coronation  and,  when  the  object 
of  one's  life  has  been  to  get  married,  to  celebrate  in 
satin  the  attaining  of  one's  aim. 

It  also  reminded  the  congregation  that  the  bride 
is  the  central  figure  at  a  wedding.  People  might 
otherwise  have  remembered  that  they  did  not  come 
because  Ada  was  Ada,  but  because  she  was  Peter's 
daughter. 

She  entered  with  reclame  into  the  state  of  being 
Mrs.  Samuel  Branstone,  resenting  a  little  the 
tweeds  of  Stewart,  Sam's  best  man,  but  liking  his 
manners  and  liking,  too,  the  way  in  which  Sam  took 
it  for  granted  that  the  day  was  hers,  not  his.  He 
did  not  even  obtrude  a  family. 

George  was,  in  fact,  obscurely  there,  hidden 
among  the  congregation.  He  was  there  in  the 
spirit  of  schoolboy,  playing  truant  from  Anne,  who 
was  at  home  with  Madge.  Ada  thought  that  the 
conspicuous  absence  of  Branstones  added  lustre  to 
her  satin.  None  but  the  necessary  Sam  was  there. 

They  went  to  London,  where  neither  of  them  had 


152  THE  MARBECK  INN 

been  before,  and  since  it  is  a  bitter  thing  to  have  to 
look  back  to  a  boring  honeymoon,  the  choice  of  place 
had  great  discretion.  There  was  so  much  besides 
themselves  to  see  in  London  that  they  postponed 
looking  at  each  other  till  they  came  home.  They 
saw  sights  and  went  to  theatres,  but  though  they 
slept  together  and  rose  together  and  saw  the  sights 
(all  but  one)  together  there  was  no  realization  of 
"  togetherness,"  no  birth  of  a  new  life  in  which  they 
were  not  Sam  and  Ada,  but  these  two  in  one.  They 
were  furiously  modest  about  things  which  no  honey- 
mooner  has  any  right  to  be  modest  about.  If  they 
are  modest  about  them,  they  have  no  right  to  be 
honeymooners.  It  may  have  been  in  their  case 
something  both  worse  and  better  than  modesty.  It 
may  have  been  downright  shame.  Perhaps  subcon- 
sciously they  knew  that  this  was  not  a  marriage, 
not  the  coming  together  of  two  fit  mates.  It  had  no 
passion  in  it.  There  was  self  when  they  should 
have  been  ecstatically  selfless.  They  were  two 
when  they  should  have  been  most  one. 

But  Sam,  if  he  fell  immensely  short  of  ecstasy, 
was  still  too  much  under  her  spell  to  be  critical. 
He  wondered  a  little  at  the  frank  delight  in  being 
married  which  she  displayed  in  public,  at  her 
flaunting  of  her  new  wedding  ring,  at  her  advertise- 
ment that  this  was  a  honeymoon,  and  contrasted 
this  outward  relish  with  her  intimate  frigidity ;  but 
even  this  seemed  a  disloyalty,  and  he  told  himself 
that  Ada  in  a  hotel  was  one  person  and  at  home 
would  be  another.  Ada  would  "  settle  down,"  and 
meantime  they  were  in  London,  and  London  was 
waiting  to  be  explored  with  her. 

They  explored  chiefly  the  London  which  London- 


HONEYMOONERS  153 

ers  do  not  know,  the  London  of  the  guide-books,  and 
felt  tremendously  metropolitan  because  they  went 
to  the  Tower,  the  British  Museum  and  the  National 
Gallery.  The  shops  scared  Ada.  Their  windows 
fascinated  but  their  doors  repelled.  Probably  Sam 
would  have  held  her  back  by  main  force  had  she 
attempted  to  go  in,  but,  as  it  was,  she  had  the  same 
satisfaction  in  identifying  them  that  social  snobs 
find  in  recognizing,  at  a  distance,  famous  people. 
These  were  the  authentic  shops  which  advertised  in 
the  papers  and  they  had  a  game  called  "  hunting  the 
Harrod  "  or  "  looking  for  Barkers,"  which  led  to  a 
lot  of  fun  with  'buses  after  they  had  quartered  Ox- 
ford Street  and  Regent  Street.  It  was  all  very  gay, 
and  gayer,  almost  naughtily  gay,  to  go  one  night  to 
a  place  called  the  Coliseum  —  a  music-hall ;  a  thing 
to  do  audaciously,  not  to  be  spoken  of  at  home ;  and 
yet  the  place  was  very  full  of  really  most  respect- 
able people.  They  marvelled  at  the  emancipation 
of  the  Londoner. 

On  his  honeymoon,  Sam  became  possessed  of  an 
ambition.  It  was  not  an  extraordinarily  fine  ambi- 
tion, but  he  came  to  care  about  it  greatly  and  it  re- 
paid his  care  a  thousandfold.  The  way  to  sanity  is 
to  desire  very  keenly  something  which  it  is  just  pos- 
sible one  may  get,  and  Sam's  ambition  kept  him 
sane  in  the  days  when  he  knew  that  Ada  had  failed 
him. 

Struggles  had  suggested  to  our  debater  of  the 
Concentrics  that  he  ought  to  see  the  House  of  Com- 
mons at  debate,  and  had  written  to  their  local  Mem- 
ber for  a  pass  to  the  Gallery.  The  result  was  the 
most  thrilling  experience  of  Sam's  honeymoon !  It 
was,  for  one  thing,  unique  that  Ada  could  not  be 


154  THE  MARBECK  INN 

with  him :  these  were  the  first  hours  since  he  married 
her  that  they  spent  apart  and  perhaps  that,  all  un- 
consciously, had  gilded  them  for  Sam.  They  had  al- 
most a  tiff  before  she  let  him  go :  not  quite,  but  she 
resented  his  desertion  of  her  and  considered  it  his 
fault  that  she  was  not  allowed  to  sit  with  him  to 
hear  the  legislators  who  made  laws  for  her  as  for 
him.  Not  that  Ada  cared  who  made  her  laws,  nor 
cared  to  watch  the  makers  at  their  work,  but  she 
managed  to  put  enough  snap  into  her  resentment  at 
his  going  to  lend  the  added  quality  of  a  stolen  pleas- 
ure to  his  experience. 

That  gallery,  with  its  foreshortened  view  of  the 
dingy  cock-pit,  is  not  the  first  choice  of  the  con- 
noisseur in  thrills,  but  on  Sam  its  effect  was  amaz- 
ing. He  must  have  had  some  gift,  quite  undis- 
closed till  now,  of  veneration,  for  it  is  almost  be- 
yond belief  that  the  reality  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons can  impress.  But  the  idea  can  and  perhaps 
(to  be  just)  the  reality  is  more  impressive  than 
that  of  any  other  Chamber  on  earth.  Imagination 
helping  him,  it  caught  and  held  his  mind. 

A  small  stout  man  of  undistinguished  appear- 
ance was  speaking  in  a  conversational  tone  not  easy 
to  hear  from  the  Gallery,  but  presently  the  orator 
warmed  to  his  subject  and  poured  out  living  words 
in  a  spate  of  real  emotion.  He  was  one  of  those 
rare  men,  and  this  one  of  those  rare  speeches,  that 
really  convert  an  opponent :  and  Sam's  ambition  to 
speak  as  this  politician  spoke,  and  from  those 
benches,  came  instantly  to  birth. 

Not  only  did  he  want  to  be  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment, but  a  Liberal  Member,  because  this  man  of 
words  was  Liberal.  Up  to  this  time,  Sam  had  not 


HONEYMOONERS  155 

been  a  political  animal  although  he  had  voted,  and 
voted  Tory  because  that  was  in  general  the  line  of 
Mr.  Travers  and  the  property-owning  class  he  rep- 
resented. Now  with  a  swift  enthusiasm  he  was 
Liberal,  knowing  nothing  of  either  side,  but  caught 
by  sudden  hero-worship  for  a  little,  pudgy,  snub- 
nosed  politician  who  spoke  in  sentences  of  prodi- 
gious length  and  never  lost  his  way  in  them. 

In  a  twinkling  he  acquired  the  bias  of  the  poli- 
tician :  his  hero's  opponent  was  palpably  a  fool ;  he 
had  no  gifts,  no  argument.  Yes,  Sam  was  doubly 
right  to  be  a  Liberal.  They  had  so  obviously  all 
the  brains,  they  were  so  undeniably  the  winning 
side.  He  did  not  understand  the  technique  of  a 
division  and  was  surprised  when  he  looked  at  the 
paper  next  day  to  find  that  the  Liberals  were  out- 
voted. It  gave  him  pause,  but  did  not  shake  him. 
When  the  Liberals  came  back  to  power,  as  with 
their  superiority  in  brain  they  were  certain  to  do, 
he,  Sam  Branstone,  would  come  with  them.  Let  it 
be  only  a  year  or  two  and  he  would  be  ready.  He 
too  would  loll  upon  those  padded  benches,  and  catch 
the  Speaker's  eye,  and  be  an  orator. 

He  walked  along  the  Embankment  towards  his 
hotel,  and  it  came  into  his  mind  that  he  had  spent 
four  hours  in  the  Gallery  and  had  not  thought  of 
Ada.  Nor  could  he,  though  he  tried,  think  of  her 
now. 

Sky-signs  still  flashed  across  the  river,  and  as  he 
paused  and  leaned  against  the  parapet  a  young 
policeman  kept  a  wary  eye  on  him.  But  Sam  was 
meditating  life,  not  death.  The  lights  of  London 
gleamed  upon  the  Thames  and  made  it  magical  for 
him.  He  conquered  London  in  his  reverie,  and 


156  THE  MARBECK  INN 

stepped,  a  member,  from  the  House  to  his  auto- 
mobile. His  home,  he  supposed,  was  somewhere  in 
Park  Lane. 

He  thought  back  now  to  the  theatre  where  he  had 
seen  The  Sign  of  the  Cross.  It  was  different  from 
the  London  Theatres  he  had  seen  where  audiences 
seemed  afraid  of  emotion.  Or  was  it  that  the  plays 
had  not  been  right?  That  was  it :  they  had  not  the 
note:  they  weren't  —  what  was  Stewart's  phrase? 
—  erotic  religious  plays.  He  wanted  to  move  audi- 
ences as  that  play  had  moved  its  audience.  Power ! 
The  power  of  the  spoken  word.  That  was  the 
thing,  and  since  he  could  not  write  a  play  he  must 
rely  upon  himself,  his  oratory,  his  single  voice.  He 
saw  himself  on  platforms  facing  crowded  halls, 
gripping  his  hearers,  leading  them  where  he  would, 
taming  the  mob  till  it  made  an  idol  of  its  master. 
As  to  where  he  would  lead,  why,  he  would  lead  and 
that  was  what  mattered.  Branstone  was  Prime 
Minister  that  night. 

It  was  one  o'clock  before  the  young  policeman 
felt  at  liberty  to  resume  his  beat,  and  Sam  left  the 
enchanted  river  for  his  little  hotel  in  Norfolk 
Street.  Ada  had  her  back  to  him  and  apparently 
she  slept.  Actually  she  was  wide  awake;  she  was 
wondering  whether  it  had  happened  to  any  other 
woman  to  be  treated  so  abominably  on  her  honey- 
moon. 

She  brushed  her  hair  next  morning  with  a  notable 
viciousness.  Hair  has  uses  beyond  those  of  mere 
adornment.  It  is  an  admirable  veil  through  which 
one  can  watch  without  being  seen  to  watch.  Ada 
was  watching  Sam  and  she  was  also  listening  to 
him. 


HONEYMOONERS  157 

She  listened  not  because  Ms  enthusiasm  for  the 
House  of  Commons  interested  her,  but  because  she 
was  waiting  for  some  word  of  apology.  It  did  not 
come.  He  was  full  of  regret,  but  only  because  this 
was  their  last  day  in  town  and  he  could  not  go  to 
the  House  again. 

"  What  time  is  our  train?  "  she  asked. 

He  told  her. 

"  Then  I  have  time  to  do  some  shopping  first." 

"  Shopping?  "  he  asked,  but  unsuspiciously. 

She  nodded.  Sam  was  going  to  pay  for  his  pleas- 
ures. Those  blouses  she  had  seen  at  Peter  Kobin- 
son's  no  longer  seemed  impossibly  expensive.  If 
Sam  chose  to  enjoy  himself  in  his  own  way,  without 
her,  she  would  enjoy  herself  in  hers — with  Sam  to 
pay  the  piper. 

Shopping  is  a  loose  term;  one  shops  when  one 
buys  a  kipper  or  a  diamond  tiara.  Ada  was  put- 
ting her  hair  up  and  he  imagined  her  to  mean  that 
she  wanted  a  packet  of  hair-pins.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he 
said  pensively.  "  And  while  you  go,  I  think  I  will 
just  slip  down  to  the  House  of  Parliament  again." 
The  House  would  not  be  sitting  and  he  could  not 
get  in.  He  knew  that,  but  he  wanted  to  gaze,  to 
look  at  the  frame  which  was  some  day  to  contain 
him.  He  wanted  to  be  certain  that  it  was  still 
there. 

"  I  think,"  she  said,  "  that  you  will  come  with  me 
to  the  shop.  I  shall  want  you  there  to  pay." 

Sam  paused  in  the  act  of  fastening  his  collar. 
"  To  pay?  "  he  asked,  not  unsuspiciously  now. 

"Are  your  selfish  pleasures  all  you  think 
about?  "  Ada  wanted  to  know\  "Isn't  it  a  privi- 
lege to  be  allowed  to  buy  me  nice  clothes?  " 


158  THE  MARBECK  INN 

He  had  not  looked  upon  it  in  that  light.  In  bud- 
geting for  their  future  he  had  indeed  assumed  that 
a  trousseau  lasted  a  bride  for  her  first  year.  "  I 
see,"  he  said  gloomily;  then  remembering  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her,  "  of  course,"  he  added  with  a 
smile  which  might  count  to  him  for  heroism. 
"  But  we  must  not  forget  the  fares,  and  after  I  have 
paid  the  bill  here  I  shall  not  have  more  than  two 
pounds  left  to  spend." 

"  Then  I  spend  two  pounds  on  blouses,"  she  said. 

He  made  a  monosyllabic  noise  which  might  have 
been  "  Yes."  It  might  also  have  been  "  Damn." 

The  truth  was  that  he  had  deliberately  kept 
those  two  pounds  back,  intending  to  spend  some, 
but  not,  he  hoped,  all  of  it,  on  a  present  for  Ada. 
He  had  thought  of  a  hand-bag,  had  imagined  her 
gasp  of  delight  when  he  audaciously  entered  with 
her  one  of  those  forbiddingly  inviting  shops,  her 
appreciation  of  his  generosity. 

Last  night  had  driven  the  thought  entirely  from 
his  mind,  and  he  was  annoyed  now  not  only  at  his 
forgetfulness,  but  at  Ada.  She  did  not  ask,  she  de- 
manded. A  night  in  the  Gallery  may  be  regarded 
as  dissipation,  but  at  least  it  is  not  a  crime.  It  is 
even  patriotic,  and  he  was  asked  to  foot  a  bill  for 
two  pounds  as  the  price  of  his  patriotism.  Ambi- 
tion, he  thought,  would  be  an  expensive  luxury  if 
he  had  to  pay  in  clothes  for  Ada  every  time  he  went 
to  a  political  meeting.  For  that,  plainly,  was  her 
attitude:  she  demanded  a  quid  pro  quo:  she  an- 
nounced a  policy  of  retaliation. 

There  is  a  queer  perverted  pleasure  in  scratching 
an  open  wound,  in  cutting  off  one's  nose  to  spite 
one's  face.  He  had  meant  to  be  generous  and  he 


HONEYMOONERS  159 

wanted  still  to  be  generous,  but  the  money  he  had 
laid  £>;ide  for  generosity  was  now  hypothecated  to 
meet  her  claim.  He  would  give  her  her  pound  of 
flesh,  but  wanted  very  badly  to  roast  it  for  her  with 
coals  of  fire. 

Gloom  lifted  from  him  suddenly.  He  took  off 
the  old  tie  which  he  had  put  on  as  being  good 
enough  to  travel  in,  and  fastened  very  carefully  one 
which  he  had  bought  "  for  London."  "  I'll  do  it," 
he  was  thinking.  "  It  is  —  almost  —  a  stroke." 

At  breakfast  he  was  positively  gay,  so  that  Ada 
wondered  furtively  what  he  was  up  to,  and  whether 
the  way  to  raise  his  spirits  would  always  be  to 
demand  new  clothes  of  him.  It  did  not  seem  likely, 
but  she  proposed  at  any  rate  to  experiment  freely  in 
that  direction. 

He  divided  his  attention  between  her,  breakfast, 
and  the  Parliamentary  report  of  the  Times.  He 
felt  that  he  had  virtually  participated  in  that  de- 
bate, and  even  the  shock  of  finding  that  the  division 
had  gone  against  his  hero  did  not  spoil  the  pleasure 
he  found  in  reading  of  it.  He  read  with  a  prophetic 
eye.  He,  too,  would  be  reported  in  the  Times  some 
day. 

He  called  the  waiter.  "  Marmalade,  sir?  "  asked 
the  man. 

"  No,  thanks.     Bring  me  the  directory." 

"  The  directory,"  protested  the  waiter,  "  is  in  the 
reading-room." 

"  And  I,"  said  Sam  superbly,  "  am  in  the  coffee- 
room." 

The  waiter  brought  him  the  directory. 

Sam  smiled  broadly.  He  was  testing  his  form, 
and  decided  that  if  it  were  equal  to  coercing  a  waiter 


160  THE  MARBECK  INN 

into  carrying  a  directory  to  his  breakfast-table,  it 
would  probably  not  fail  him  in  what  he  proposed  to 
do.  He  consulted  the  book  and  noted  an  address 
which  was  not,  he  observed,  in  Park  Lane.  His  re- 
spect for  Sir  William  Gatenby  suffered  a  slight  de- 
cline. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  rang  the  bell  of  that  gentle- 
man's house.  Gatenby  was  the  local  member,  to 
whom  Peter  Struggles  had  written  for  Sam's  pass 
to  the  Gallery. 

"  Sir  William  in?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  but "  A  trained  eye  observed  his 

clothes.  They  were  not  cut  in  Savile  Row. 

"  He  will  see  me,"  said  Sam  serenely.  Some  peo- 
ple are  at  their  best  in  the  early  morning. 

His  card  was  accepted  from  him,  and  he  was 
shown  into  a  library  of  severe  Blue  Books,  possibly 
qualified  by  a  reproduction  of  Millais'  portrait  of 
Gladstone.  Ordinarily,  Sam  would  have  been  met 
in  the  library  by  a  secretary  who  earned  his  salary 
by  his  talent  for  administering  polite  snubs  to  un- 
wanted callers.  The  secretary  was  not  earning  his 
salary  to-day,  but,  probably,  spending  it.  It  was 
Derby  Day. 

After  all,  a  vote  is  a  vote,  and  Sir  William  came 
in  with  a  show  of  geniality.  "  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Branstone,"  he  said,  reading  Sam's  card.  "  From 
the  old  town,  I  see." 

"  Is  that  all  you  remember  about  me?  "  asked 
Sam. 

"  At  the  moment,"  confessed  Sir  William  warily. 
His  majority  was  not  large. 

"  Well,"  said  Sam,  "  the  Reverend  Mr.  Struggles 
is  my  father-in-law." 


HONEYMOONERS  161 

"  Sit  down,"  said  Sir  William.  "  I  am  very  glad 
you  called.  How  is  Mr.  Struggles?  " 

"  I  left  him  well,  thank  you.  Perhaps  you  re- 
member that  he  wrote  to  you  to  ask  you  for  a  pass 
to  the  Gallery  for  me." 

"  I  was  happy  to  be  lucky  in  the  ballot,"  said  the 
Member. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  "I  went  last  night.  But  I 
mentioned  that  to  establish  my  identity.  My  ob- 
ject in  calling  upon  you  is  to  ask  you  to  lend  me 
five  pounds." 

Sir  William  thought  of  his  secretary,  who  should 
have  saved  him  this.  Thinking  of  his  secretary,  he 
thought  of  Derby  Day  and  the  probable  intentions 
of  a  man  who  chooses  that  day  to  ask  for  a  loan. 
"  My  dear  sir !  "  he  said. 

"  Quite,"  agreed  Sam.  "  Life  would  be  unbear- 
able to  you  if  every  constituent  who  came  to  Lon- 
don tried  to  borrow  money  off  you.  But  I  am 
Branstone.  I  run  the  Branstone  Press  and  the 
Branstone  Classics.  I  published  the  '  Social  Evil ' 
pamphlet  and  sent  you  a  copy  which,  I  regret  to 
say,  you  did  not  acknowledge."  Sir  William 
thought  again  of  his  secretary,  and  unkindly. 
"  This,"  said  Sam,  "  is  merely  to  indicate  that  I  am 
a  man  of  substance." 

Sir  William  Gatenby  wore  side-whiskers.  He 
was  an  old  man  and  there  was  little  left  of  him 
besides  pomposity  and  a  determination  to  hold  his 
seat.  He  looked,  what  at  this  moment  he  felt,  some 
one  in  a  farce.  He  was  quite  sure  that  Sam  was 
some  one  in  a  farce.  They  were  both  in  a  farce, 
and  of  course  five-pound  notes  fly  in  farces  like 
gnats  in  August.  -  It  did  not  seem  to  him  that  there 


162  THE  MARBECK  INN 

was  anything  to  do  but  to  produce  a  five-pound 
note. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  and  sat  at  a  desk.  "  I 
will  give  you  my  cheque  for  this." 

It  staggered  Sir  William.  He  nearly  warned 
Sam  of  the  danger  of  issuing  a  cheque  which  was 
not  likely  to  be  honoured,  but  refrained  in  time. 
"  Then,"  he  said,  "  there  was  really  no  need  for 
you  to  come  to  me  at  all?  " 

"  Only,"  said  Sam,  "  that  I  wanted  you  to  re- 
member me." 

"  I  think  I  shall  do  that,"  said  Sir  William. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sam  calmly.  "  I  wanted  to 
know  you  because  I  intend  to  go  into  politics." 

"  The  Cause,"  said  Sir  William  solemnly,  "  de- 
mands his  best  from  every  earnest  worker." 

"  I  will  work  for  the  Cause,"  said  Sam.  Neither 
of  them  attempted  to  define  the  Cause,  and  Sam 
left  without  further  remark,  but  his  call  had  this 
result:  that  on  finding  the  cheque  honoured  Sir 
William  wrote  to  his  agent  to  tell  him  of  "  a  queer 
fish  called  Samuel  Branstone  who  called  on  me  the 
other  day,  and  offered  to  work  for  the  Cause.  A 
young  man  whom  I  think  you  should  encourage. 
He  is  the  son-in-law  of  Mr.  Struggles,  and  the 
Church,  alas,  is  so  tepid  towards  our  great  Prin- 
ciples that  we  must  not  neglect  a  promising  recruit 
from  that  fold." 


CHAPTER  X\ 

OTHER   THINGS   BESIDE    MARRIAGE 

DEBT  appeals  to  some  people.  They  feel  that  when 
they  are  in  debt  they  have  had  more  out  of  life 
than  life  owes  to  them.  Sam  had  given  Gatenby 
his  cheque  and  was  therefore  not  in  debt  to  him, 
but  he  proceeded  to  spend  the  five  pounds  as  reck- 
lessly as  if  it  had  been  borrowed  money. 

He  meant  to  astonish  Ada,  and  succeeded,  but  the 
surprise  he  sprang  did  not  work  quite  as  he  antici- 
pated. For  a  moment,  indeed,  as  he  bought  her 
hats  and  blouses  she  glowed  with  unaffected  grati- 
tude, and  he  tasted  with  her  the  joy  of  headstrong 
acquisition.  But  Ada's  glow  was  quick  to  pass. 

She  had  time  in  the  train  to  forget  the  splendour 
of  his  presents  and  the  dash  that  she  would  cut  next 
Sunday,  and  to  remember  that  he  had  spent  a  lot 
of  money ;  he  who  denied  that  he  had  more  than  two 
pounds  to  spend  had  spent  seven.  Obviously,  he 
had  lied  to  her. 

It  was  true,  she  thought,  that  he  had  repented 
of  his  lie  and  of  his  meanness,  and  bought  hand- 
somely :  the  more  handsome  the  purchase,  the  more 
demonstrable  the  lie. 

She  recalled  her  dreadful  interview  with  Anne, 
Anne's  statements  of  his  means,  and  how  little  they 
conformed  to  the  scale  of  Sam's  furnishing.  She 
pondered  Sam's  open-handedness  in  the  blouse- 


164  THE  MARBECK  INN 

shop,  and  concluded  that  the  Branstones  were  con- 
genital liars  about  money. 

In  the  future  she  would  know  how  to  act.  Sam 
had  plenty. 

"  So  you  had  money  up  your  sleeve  all  the  time," 
she  said. 

Sam  winked  facetiously.  "  There  are  a  lot  of 
funny  things  up  my  sleeve/'  he  said. 

"  I'm  learning  that,"  said  Ada.  Which  he  took 
for  a  compliment ;  and  grinned. 

He  had  long  since  made  up  his  mind  that  the  way 
with  women  was  to  mystify  them,  to  treat  them 
like  children  at  a  conjuring  entertainment,  to  sur- 
prise them  with  results,  but  never  to  explain.  He 
nearly  choked  with  pride  over  his  exploit  with  Sir 
William  Gatenby.  But  for  the  hat-box  and  the 
blouses  up  there  on  the  rack,  what  he  had  done  was 
too  good  to  be  true,  and  certainly  it  was  too  good 
to  be  told  to  a  woman.  They  did  not  understand 
business;  no  woman  could  appreciate  the  daring 
spirit  of  his  feat. 

If  he  told  Ada  that  he  had  borrowed  from 
Gatenby,  she  would  simply  say  "  Oh,  yes,"  and  treat 
his  unexampled  audacity  as  a  matter  of  course.  It 
was  inspiration,  brilliantly  conceived  and  bril- 
liantly executed,  and  its  bright  memory  was  not 
to  be  tarnished  by  a  woman's  dull  acceptance  of  it 
as  something  not  in  the  least  extraordinary. 

He  grinned  and  did  not  tell,  and  what  did  not 
occur  to  him  was  that  if  he  offered  no  explanation 
she  would  supply  one  of  her  own.  It  is  idiotic  to 
tell  a  wife  everything,  but  wise  to  tell  nearly  every- 
thing; especially  when  it  is  open  to  her  to  draw  a 
false  conclusion. 


Sam  did  not  think  a  false  conclusion  open  to  her, 
because  he  still  believed  the  best  of  Ada,  because  he 
was  still  in  love.  But  falling  out  of  love  is  desper- 
ately easy. 

"  As  a  walled  town/'  says  Touchstone,  "  is 
worthier  than  a  village,  so  is  the  forehead  of  a  mar- 
ried man  more  honourable  than  the  bare  brow  of  a 
bachelor,"  and  Sam  was  married.  He  could  lay 
that  flattering  unction  to  his  soul,  could  hold  his 
head  higher,  because  he  was  a  ratepayer  and  bore 
responsibilities,  and  went  home  at  night  to  a  house 
with  a  garden.  He  did  all  that,  and  it  was  empty 
honour  because  success  in  marriage,  as  in  all  else, 
is  not  to  be  had  ready-made,  but  depends  upon  the 
will  to  make  adjustments. 

The  will  can  come  best  from  passion,  and  there 
was  no  passion  here  to  tide  them  over  the  awkward 
age  of  marriage,  the  first  difficult  year  when  the 
adjustments  must,  if  ever,  be  made.  Granted  pas- 
sion, a  man  can  love  a  woman  whom  he  knows  to 
be  a  murderess;  let  passion  lack,  and  he  can  fall 
out  of  love  because  the  woman  snores  or  is  untidy. 
Sam's  marriage  was  not  made  in  heaven,  but  by 
Ada  in  Heaton  Park,  and  with  a  marriage  so  made 
it  is  as  easy  to  fall  out  of  love  as  off  a  house.  Lit- 
tle things  count  more  than  big  when  there  is  no 
passion  to  create  its  life-long  mirage. 

If  you  cannot  have  the  mirage  of  passion  there  is 
a  useful  substitute  called  common  sense,  another 
name  for  compromise,  and  Ada  refused  to  compro- 
mise. She  was  for  self,  unmitigated  and  supreme. 
Ada  left  the  adjustments  to  Sam,  and  relaxed  in 
nothing  from  her  perfect  selfishness. 

The  little  thing  which  counted  heavily  against 


166  THE  MARBECK  INN 

her,  almost  at  once,  was  simply  that  Ada  was  un- 
tidy. She  did  not  invent  places  for  things,  or,  if 
she  did,  they  were  never  used.  She  left  her  clothes 
downstairs  after  she  had  been  out,  and  the  piano 
is  not  the  place  for  a  hat  or  the  sofa  for  an  um- 
brella. It  annoyed  Sam  to  distraction  to  find  her 
clothes  distributed  about  their  bedroom,  slung  care- 
lessly over  chair  backs,  pitched  on  the  floor. 

Men  are  not  the  untidy  sex:  the  virtue  of  tidi- 
ness, like  most  others,  is  evenly  distributed.  Sam 
was  tidy  by  nature,  and  habit  is  stronger  still. 
Ada's  misfortune  was  that  he  was  used  to  Anne, 
that  Anne  was  neat  and  Ada  a  slut.  Sam  did  not 
know  until  he  missed  it  how  much  he  appreciated 
Anne's  tidiness,  how  much  he  needed  it  and  how 
much  he  hated  untidiness  until  he  lived  with  it  in 
Ada.  In  London,  in  the  hotel,  he  had  excused  what 
he  saw  of  it,  because  it  was  in  an  hotel ;  which  was 
also  why  there  had  been  little  to  see,  by  reason  of  a 
good  chambermaid. 

At  home,  it  hurt  him  and  he  could  do  nothing. 
Ada  did  nothing,  either.  She  had  not  married  for 
love,  and  one  does  not  change  a  habit  without  strong 
motive.  His  hints  appeared  to  Ada  peevish  and  un- 
reasonable. She  thought  he  made  mountains  out 
of  molehills  and  despised  him  for  small-minded- 
ness; he  thought  a  woman  who  could  not  put  a 
petticoat  into  a  drawer  when  he  asked  her  was  wil- 
fully provoking  him. 

She  was  not  wilful  of  set  purpose.  She  simply 
refused  to  disturb  her  habits,  to  accommodate  her- 
self to  him,  to  make  a  sacrifice  to  love.  She  had  no 
love  to  which  to  sacrifice. 

And  presently  he  found  out  that  he,  too,  did  not 


OTHER  THINGS  BESIDE  MARRIAGE     167 

love.  But  that  was  all.  Then  and  afterwards  that 
was,  damnably,  all.  He  did  not  love,  but  neither 
did  he  hate.  He  had  never  loved  her  deeply  enough 
to  hate  her.  That  was  the  tragedy  of  Sam's  mar- 
riage :  indifference,  the  deadliest  sin. 

He  was  indifferent  to  her,  to  her  untidiness  and 
even  to  her  extravagance.  She  could  not  treat 
clothes  reasonably,  she  did  not  know  how  to  wear 
them  when  she  had  them,  but  she  lusted  madly  to 
possess  them.  She  was  grossly,  inexcusably  ex- 
travagant, and  he  was  indifferent.  He  was  indif- 
ferent because  he  was  growing  rich,  and  wanted  his 
energies  for  the  purpose  of  growing  richer,  not  of 
quarrelling  with  her. 

That  was  another  tragedy.  They  never  quar- 
relled. They  never  cleared  the  air,  they  never 
flushed  the  drain.  They  did  not  make  adjustments, 
but  left  things  where  they  were,  in  a  bad  place. 
On  honeymoon,  they  turned  from  looking  at  each 
other  to  look  at  London,  and  at  home,  after  one  ex- 
perience of  revelation,  they  did  not  seek  another, 
but  rebounded  and  looked  anywhere  but  at  them- 
selves. 

But  Peter  was  looking,  and  Anne,  through  the 
eyes  of  George,  was  looking,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  things  were  happening  as  she  had  expected 
they  would  happen.  She  had  said  the  girl  was  no 
good  and  what  George  told  her  in  his  fumbling  way 
gave  her  to  see  that  the  girl  turned  wife  was  equally 
no  good.  Anne  tightened  her  lips  grimly  and  went 
on  with  her  efficient  charring.  She  thought  her 
time  would  come. 

Peter  looked  for  the  coming  of  love  to  bless  this 
marriage  to  which  he  had  consented  in  the  belief 


168  THE  MARBECK  INN 

that  his  God  of  love  would  sanctify.  He  had 
trusted  to  the  strength  of  Sam,  and  to  the  hope  that 
Sam's  strength  would  turn  to  sweetness;  and  it 
only  turned  to  business.  It  did  not  lead  Ada  from 
materialism,  but  drew  Peter  himself,  unwittingly  at 
first,  towards  it.  Peter  found  himself  selecting 
texts  for  Sam's  "  Church  Child's  Calendar,"  a  la- 
bour of  love,  which  nevertheless  had  nothing  to 
do  with  Ada,  except  in  the  most  indirect  way, 
and  nothing  to  do  with  the  Sam  and  Ada  situa- 
tion. 

It  was  the  fact  that,  to  them,  there  seemed  to  be 
no  situation  which  distressed  Peter.  They  simply 
let  things  be,  and  things  let  be  obey  the  law  of 
gravity.  He  hoped,  ardently,  for  children.  Chil- 
dren blessed  marriage  in  the  physical  sense,  and 
from  that  blessing  the  other,  the  spiritual  blessing, 
might  arise. 

There  was  at  one  time  hope  that  Ada  might  have 
a  child  .  .  .  and  then  the  hope  was  blighted,  and 
the  doctor  told  them  not  to  hope  again.  Ada  would 
never  be  a  mother. 

"  I  could  have  told  them  that,"  said  Anne. 
( You'd  only  to  look  at  the  girl  to  see  it."  Which 
may  only  have  been  wisdom  after  the  event,  but  cer- 
tainly did  not  imply  that  Anne  was  disappointed; 
though  Peter  was,  and  bitterly. 

Sam,  too,  had  wanted  a  son,  but  not,  as  Peter 
thought,  by  Ada  and  for  Ada.  He  wanted  an  heir 
for  dynastic  reasons.  He  was  the  Branstone  Pub- 
lishing Company,  its  parent  and  original,  and 
wranted  flesh  of  his  flesh  to  publish  after  him.  He 
dreamed  of  a  young  Sam  in  the  cap  of  the  Grammar 
School,  who  should  go  to  the  University  to  which  he 


OTHER  THINGS  BESIDE  MARRIAGE     169 

had  not  gone  and  have  the  chances  he  had  missed. 
He  built  many  castles  in  Spain  for  the  son  who  was 
never  born. 

Ada  got  up  from  bed  and  flashed  greedily  into 
new  clothes.  If  the  measure  of  her  buying  was  the 
measure  of  her  grief,  she  had  been  deeply  touched. 
Perhaps  she  was  touched,  for  she  had  aimed  at  mar- 
riage, which  is  incomplete  without  a  child.  But 
in  the  shops,  the  fashion  papers,  her  clothes  and 
the  clothes  of  other  women  she  found  distraction 
and  an  occupation.  She  passed  a  milestone  and 
went  on  her  way.  Ada  was  no  stoic,  no  hider  of 
her  grief,  and  since  she  did  not  complain  she  must 
have  thought  her  childlessness  was  nothing  to  com- 
plain about.  When  she  set  her  heart  on  marriage, 
she  hadn't,  perhaps,  looked  further  than  the  ring, 
the  ceremony  and  the  honourable  state  of  being 
Mrs.  Branstone. 

She  plunged  to  shops  and  spending  money,  Sam 
to  business  and  making  it;  and  some,  at  any  rate, 
of  the  now  thwarted  love  he  had  been  storing  for 
his  son  passed  to  the  business.  Somewhere  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  he  knew  his  business  was  not  lov- 
able ;  that  it  was  pitch ;  that  one  cannot  touch  pitch 
without  being  defiled.  But  neither  can  one  deal 
successfully  in  pitch  without  arriving  at  faith  in 
the  virtues  of  pitch.  At  intimate  moments  he  was 
aware  that  the  "  Social  Evil "  pamphlet  was  per- 
nicious, but  Sam  Branstone,  inducing  a  bookseller 
to  stock  it,  was  more  than  an  advocate  who  believes 
temporarily  in  his  brief :  he  was  a  missionary  with 
faith  in  his  mission.  So,  too,  with  the  texts.  He 
sold  them  with  the  conviction  that  it  was  good  for 
people  to  have  texts  on  their  walls.  He  counter- 


170  THE  MARBECK  INN 

felted  sincerity  until  he  came  to  be  sincere,  or,  at 
all  events,  to  forget  that  he  was  insincere. 

Further  and  further  into  the  unsearched  recesses 
of  his  mind  he  pressed  the  thought  that  he  sold 
texts  because  their  sales  were  good  for  him,  and 
with  his  working,  everyday,  non-introspective  mind 
he  had  a  sincerity  about  his  wares,  convenient  but 
none  the  less  authentic,  which  was  invaluable  both 
to  his  self-respect  and  as  a  first  aid  to  success  in 
salesmanship.  He  never,  in  the  old  days,  praised 
a  house  with  the  ringing  voice  of  absolute  convic- 
tion which  he  used  about  Law's  "  Serious  Call." 
He  had  not  read  Law,  but  the  sales  hung  fire 
till  he  became  persuaded  of  Law's  tremendous 
worth. 

He  had  a  serious  call  of  his  own,  a  call  to  sell 
good  books  at  good  profits,  and  the  call  expressed 
itself  in  his  clothes  and  his  appearance.  He 
seemed  older,  graver,  took  his  frock-coat  into  daily 
wear,  used  only  black  in  ties  and  socks,  and  had  the 
air  of  one,  who,  if  not  a  clergyman,  was  often  in 
their  company,  though  as  a  fact  he  was  more  fre- 
quently with  commercial  travellers,  and  in  the 
hotels  at  night  his  repertoire  of  smoke-room  stories 
came  no  less  gaily  from  his  tongue  than  of  old. 

And  about  this  time  his  moustache  began  to 
droop  like  a  curtain  over  his  resolute  mouth. 

Stewart  came  into  the  office  one  day  with  a  parcel 
under  his  arm.  He  had  seen  neither  Sam  nor  his 
office  lately,  and  stared  wide-eyed  at  both.  Carter, 
partner  in  the  printing  business,  still  occupied  the 
dilapidated  office  where  Sam  had  found  him,  but 
the  Branstone  Publishing  Company  had  ampler 
premises  next  door,  in  a  building  which  Sam  rented 


OTHER  THINGS  BESIDE  MARRIAGE      171 

as  warehouse  for  his  stock.  Gilt  lettering  on  its 
windows  called  the  attention  of  the  passer-by  to  the 
Branstone  *f  Classics. 

Sam  still  looked  after  detail,  and  when  Stewart 
came  in,  was  correcting  proofs  of  a  tear-off  calendar 
with  a  Bible  at  his  elbow. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Stewart,  "  that  you  are  Bran- 
stone,  but  why  disguise  yourself  as  a  Scottish  El- 
der? " 

"  I  am  in  my  usual  clothes,"  said  Sam,  rather 
huffed. 

"  If  the  clothes  are  the  man,  this  is  no  place  for 
me.  Do  you  often  use  the  Bible  in  your  business 
hours?  " 

He  often  did,  not  only  to  check  with  a  quite 
beautiful  precision  the  texts  on  his  calendars  by  the 
Authorised  Version,  but  in  another  way,  and  one 
which  seemed  to  show,  if  it  showed  anything,  that 
he  looked  upon  the  Bible  with  intimate  familiarity. 
Perhaps  one  mascot  was  the  vellum-bound  copy  of 
the  "  Social  Evil "  pamphlet  and  the  other  the 
Bible.  At  any  rate,  his  price  code  used  in  the  office 
was  made  up  this  way : 

MYFATHERGOD 
1234      5     6     7     8     9    10   20 

New  clerks  initiated  into  that  code  used  to  won- 
der at  it  for  a  day.  Then  they  got  used  to  it. 

"  I'm  correcting  the  proofs  of  this  calendar," 
Sam  explained.  "  You  see,  it's  a  shaving  calendar. 
You  hang  this  up  by  your  shaving-mirror  and  study 
the  text  for  the  day  while  you  shave." 

"  I  don't,"  said  Stewart.     "  I  go  to  the  barber's. 


172  THE  MARBECK  INN 

My  hand's  unsteady  in  the  morning.  But  I  see  the 
idea.  First  read  the  text,  then  wipe  your  razor  on 
it." 

"  That  is  not  the  idea.  See."  He  pointed  to  the 
card  of  the  calendar,  and  read  solemnly : 

"  A  text  a  day 
Drives  care  away." 

"  It  wouldn't  drive  my  sort  of  care  away,"  said 
Stewart.  "  Mine's  serious." 

"  There  can  be  no  trouble  too  serious  for  you  to 
find  consolation  in  this  calendar." 

"But  suppose  I  have  toothache  on  quarter-day, 
and  the  consolation  you  offer  for  that  date  is  con- 
solation to  a  man  who  can't  pay  his  rent?  Seri- 
ously, Branstone,  am  I  behind  the  scenes  in  this 
office,  or  do  you  never  drop  the  showman?  I  admit 
you're  in  the  pi-market,  and  you've  dressed  the  pi- 
man's  part  and  you've  got  his  patter,  too,  but  I 
don't  know  that  you  need  exercise  it  on  me.  This 
stock  of  yours  looks  dire,"  he. commented,  strolling 
round  the  office.  "  I  suppose  it's  the  stuff  that 
sells?" 

"  My  business,"  said  Sam,  "  is  founded  on  a 
rock." 

"  I  came  in  here  to  sell  you  a  fortune,"  said 
Stewart.  "  If  you're  going  to  talk  cant  at  me,  I'll 
take  the  fortune  to  a  London  publisher.  Your  busi- 
ness may  be  founded  on  a  rock,  but  the  name  of  the 
rock  is  the  '  Social  Evil.' ' 

"  The  word  rock,"  said  Sam,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  "  is  also  used  for  a  kind  of  toffee." 

"  Well,  now  that  I  know  you're  sane,  I'll  talk  to 
you.  And  I'll  talk  toffee,  too.  I  didn't  think  in 


OTHER  THINGS  BESIDE  MARRIAGE      173 

the  days  of  my  earnest  youth  that  I  should  come  to 
this,  but  you  never  know  what  debt  will  do  to  a 
man.  I've  written  a  novel.  At  least,  it  isn't  a 
novel,  it's  an  outrage  on  decency.  It's  a  violent  as- 
sault on  the  emotions.  It's  the  sort  of  thing  I  de- 
serve shooting  for  writing.  Treacle  is  bitter  com- 
pared with  it,  and  it  does  not  contain  one  word  of 
literature.  It  is  a  cast-iron  certainty." 

"  I  must  read  it,"  said  Sam. 

"  You're  growing  distrustful,"  said  Stewart 
sadly. 

"  I  don't  buy  pigs  in  pokes,  even  when  they're 
yours,"  said  Sam.  "  Come  along  in  a  couple  of 
days." 

He  read  the  novel,  and  was  ready  for  Stewart 
when  he  came. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty,"  he  said,  "  of  marking 
some  passages  in  this  manuscript  which  you  may 
care  to  alter." 

"  Oh?  I  know  it's  mawkish,  but  I  don't  believe 
there  is  a  limit  to  what  they'll  stand  —  and  like." 

"  I  refer  particularly  to  the  character  you  have 
called  Hetaera." 

"  But  only  once.     After  that  she's  called  Hetty." 

"  Hetty,"  said  Sam  severely,  "  will  have  to  be  cut 
out.  She  is  an  impure  woman." 

"  Even  the  most  popular  of  novels  should  bear 
some  relationship  to  life." 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  publish  this  one,  Hetty  must 
go.  Branstones  have  a  reputation  to  sustain." 

"  Good  God !  "  said  Stewart.  "  Hetty  is  the  one 
oasis  of  truth  in  a  desert  of  sloppy  sentimentality. 
She's  true  because  I  happen  to  know  her." 

"  That  is  nothing  to  your  credit,  Stewart." 


174-  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Stewart  stared.  "  Are  you  pulling  my  leg,  Sam, 
or  is  this  really  serious?  " 

"  Why  should  you  doubt  my  seriousness  when  I 
ask  that  fiction  should  be  devoid  of  offence?  " 

"  Don't  you  mean  devoid  of  truth?  "  He  recov- 
ered his  temper  and  his  perspective.  After  all,  he 
was  very  short  of  money.  "  All  right,  Sam,"  he 
said.  "  Edit  me.  Censor  me.  I  thought  I  knew 
things,  but  there  are  deeps  below  the  lowest  depths, 
and  you  have  reached  them.  I  surrender.  What 
are  the  terms?  " 

Sam  offered  terms  which  were  quite  generous. 
He  might  want  Stewart  again. 

The  novel  was  purged  of  Hetty  and  published. 
The  three-page  prayer  of  the  distressed  heroine  was 
used,  in  paraphrase,  from  quite  a  number  of  non- 
conformist pulpits,  and  the  book  was  a  huge  suc- 
cess. It  was  the  first  of  that  series  —  Branstone's 
Happy  Novels  for  Healthy  Homes  —  which  carried 
the  strength  of  the  literary  emetic  to  a  point  of 
concentrated  sweetness  undreamt  of  before,  and 
discovered  somewhere  a  public  stomach  which  did 
not  reject  its  nauseating  jam,  but  revelled  in  it. 


IF  only  Ada  had  had  the  courage  of  what  ought  to 
have  been  her  convictions,  things  would  have  been 
very  different.  But  she  hadn't  the  pluck  or  the 
zest  in  life  to  be  anything  at  all  except  an  almost 
perfect  negative,  and  a  man  will  fight  for  a  wife  for 
many  reasons,  but  not  for  the  reason  that  she  is  a 
full-stop. 

Ada,  as  Peter  knew  when  he  consented  to  the 
marriage,  could  be  led:  with  even  surer  hope  of 
good  result  she  could  be  driven,  and  if  Sam  had 
cared  to  drive,  to  play  Petruchio  with  Ada,  he 
could  have  turned  her  negative  into  a  comparative, 
if  not  into  a  positive. 

Unhappily,  his  driving  powers  were  otherwise 
engaged,  and  his  objectives  were  on  the  battlefield, 
his  office,  rather  than  in  the  dormitory  which  he 
might  have  turned  into  a  home.  And  since  Ada 
had  all  that  she  was  conscious  of  wanting,  she  had 
a  dull  contentment.  Two  servants  and  credit  at 
the  shops  were  good  enough  for  Ada,  and  good 
enough,  too,  for  Sam,  because  they  advertised  suc- 
cess. If  Ada  had  been  actively  vicious,  if  she  had 
drunk,  if  men  or  a  man  had  obsessed  her,  if  indeed 
she  had  been  anything  that  was  bad  perceptibly, 
Sam  would  have  abandoned  his  indifference  and 
taken  a  strong  and  effective  line  with  her.  It 


176  THE  MARBECK  INN 

might,  at  first,  have  been  only  because  a  positively 
vicious  Ada  would  have  been  bad  for  the  Bran- 
stone  ^"  Classics,  but  it  would  have  ended  by  be- 
ing good  for  Ada  and  for  Sam :  it  would  have  been 
the  beginning  of  Ada  and  Sam,  of  their  dual  life 
which  had  not  yet  come  to  birth.  But,  as  it  was, 
he  saw  nothing  to  fight.  There  was  a  superficial 
Tightness;  therefore  all  was  right,  he  could  forget 
Ada  and  turn  to  the  things  which  were  vital  to 
him,  business  for  its  own  sake,  and  business  con- 
sidered as  a  stepping-stone  to  politics. 

He  was  content  for  some  time  to  leave  his  poli- 
tical ambitions  alone,  because  it  seemed  to  him  that 
money,  quite  a  lot  of  money,  was  needed  for  pol- 
itics. In  truth,  he  was  rather  awed  by  his  ambi- 
tion :  the  House  of  Commons  seemed  a  tremendous 
distance  from  his  office  in  Manchester,  and  he 
thought  a  great  deal  of  money  would  be  needed  for 
the  fare.  Fundamentally,  he  was  modest  and 
rarely  overrated  his  abilities,  but  he  believed  that 
he  had  luck,  and  thought  money  a  good  first  aid  to 
more  luck.  Well  as  he  was  doing  in  business,  he 
could  not  afford  to  divert  his  energies  from  money- 
making  to  politics,  wherein  he  did  not  mean  to  be- 
gin at  the  bottom. 

He  was  not  ready  yet  to  make  political  oppor- 
tunities for  himself,  but  if  political  opportunities 
came  to  him,  that  was  another  matter.  And  they 
did  come.  When  he  interviewed  Sir  William 
Gatenby,  he  threw  a  pebble  into  a  pool  whose  wave 
was  to  wash  him  to  high  places. 

It  washed  him  into  the  knowledge  of  Mr.  Charles 
Wattercouch,  who  was  agent  for  the  Division. 
Wattercouch  read  Gatenby's  letter  about  Sam  with 


THE  POLITICAL  ANIMAL  177 

some  surprise,  as  one  of  his  recruiting  grounds  for 
voluntary  workers  was  the  Concentrics,  and  he 
thought  he  recalled  hearing  Sam  speak  for  the  other 
faction,  but  he  catalogued  the  name  for  future  ref- 
erence on  his  list  of  earnest  young  men. 

Wattercouch,  like  Sam,  was  in  no  hurry.  He 
preferred  men  to  come  to  him,  not  to  go  in  search  of 
them,  but  Sam  did  not  come,  and  a  letter  from 
Gatenby  was  not  to  be  neglected.  Though  Gatenby 
had  probably  dismissed  the  subject  from  his  mind, 
he  paid  half  of  Wattercouch's  salary,  and  he  might 
inquire  about  Sam  some  day.  So  the  agent  called 
on  Sam  at  the  office. 

He  was  a  square-built,  square-faced  man  of  forty, 
with  a  pink,  eupeptic  complexion,  and  light  hair 
which  bristled  hardily.  Your  organizer  of  victory, 
like  your  editor,  is  apt  to  be  cynical  about  the  pol- 
itics he  is  paid  to  profess,  but  Wattercouch  kept  his 
perfect  faith  in  Liberalism,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
he  served  the  Liberal  Party,  a  feat  in  the  accom- 
modation of  blameless  principle  with  unscrupulous 
opportunism,  which  he  accomplished  with  entire 
sincerity.  One  can  be  sincere  and  Jesuitical,  in 
fact  one  can  hardly  be  Jesuitical  without  being  sin- 
cere, and  to  Mr.  Wattercouch  the  most  egregiously 
illiberal  acts  of  the  Liberal  Party  were  justified  be- 
cause they  were  the  acts  of  that  party,  and  must, 
however  improbable  it  seemed,  be  means  to  the  end 
which  was  Liberalism. 

This  is  not  to  suggest  that  Mr.  Wattercouch  was 
complex,  for  he  was  indeed  quite  simple,  as  witness 
the  man's  relish  in  his  grotesque  name.  He  knew 
the  value  of  being  ridiculed  when  one  can  turn 
ridicule  into  respect,  and  much  of  his  popularity 


178  THE  MARBECK  INN 

resulted  from  the  genial  way  in  which  he  took  jokes 
about  his  name.  He  made  an  asset  of  what  might, 
to  a  less  good-natured  man,  have  been  a  handicap. 
"  Indeed,"  says  Ben  Jonson,  "  there  is  a  woundy 
luck  in  names,  sir,"  and  Wattercouch  turned  doubt- 
ful luck  to  good  account. 

Sam  had  the  gift  of  the  gab,  which  means  that  he 
knew  both  how  and  when  to  speak,  and  how  and 
when  to  be  silent.  He  was  silent  while  Mr.  Watter- 
couch spoke  of  the  valuable  work  to  be  done  by  an 
earnest  labourer  in  connection  with  the  annual 
revision  of  the  register.  The  point  of  the  work  was 
to  see  that  all  possible  known  Liberals  were  on 
the  register,  and  all  possible  objection  taken  to  any 
known  Conservatives,  and,  complicated  as  the  work 
was  by  the  removal  habit  amongst  electors,  it  was 
no  light  undertaking.  Certainly  no  agent  could 
have  carried  it  through  without  the  aid  of  indus- 
trious volunteers. 

But  Sam  did  not  see  himself  in  the  character  of 
an  industrious  volunteer,  and  he  was  silent  for  two 
reasons.  The  first  was  that  his  silence  was  causing 
Mr.  Wattercouch  visible  embarrassment,  and  Sam 
liked  the  other  man  to  be  embarrassed ;  the  second 
was  that  he  was  considering  how  to  make  Mr.  Wat- 
tercouch see  that  his  suggestion  was  an  absurdity, 
if  not  an  insult. 

He  smiled  with  quite  polite  superiority.  "  But 
I  think,  Mr.  Wattercouch,  that  you  are  making  a 
mistake,"  he  said,  as  one  who  apologizes  for  having 
to  be  blunt. 

"  Well,"  admitted  Wattercouch,  "  I  had  my 
doubts,  because  I  fancied  I'd  heard  you  support 
Stephen  Verity  at  the  Concentrics." 


THE  POLITICAL  ANIMAL  179 

"  That,"  said  Sam,  "  is  not  the  mistake  to  which  I 
allude.  I  am  aware  that  I  have  supported  Verity 
at  the  Concentrics.  And  I  am  aware  that  the  way 
to  learn  how  to  cut  a  man's  hair  is  to  practise  on  a 
sheep's  head.  Verity  was  my  sheep's  head." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  hardly  follow,"  said  Wattercouch, 
who  was  indeed  rather  scandalized  by  such  an  al- 
lusion to  Mr.  Verity,  who,  if  a  Conservative,  was 
an  alderman  and  a  noted  figure  in  local  politics. 

"  I  will  make  it  easier  for  you  by  admitting  that 
even  I  had  to  learn,"  said  Sam. 

"Ah!  I  see.  You  have  now  seen  the  error  of 
your  ways.  You  realize  the  grandeur  of  Liberal- 
ism, the " 

"  I  always  did,"  Sam  asserted.  "  When  I  sup- 
ported Verity,  I  was  teaching  myself  to  speak.  I 
was  practising  on  Toryism  that  I  might  become 
perfect  in  Liberalism.  Those  days  when  I  made  a 
convenience  of  Toryism  were  the  days  of  my  ap- 
prenticeship to  the  art  of  speaking.  Would  you 
have  had  me  speak  badly  for  such  a  cause  as  Liberal- 
ism? No.  But  if  I  spoke  badly  for  Toryism,  I 
damaged  nothing.  Toryism  is  nothing  unless,  as 
I  said,  it  is  a  sheep's  head  for  Liberals  to  practise 
on  when  they  are  novices,  and  the  mistake  you  made 
is  to  suppose  that  I  am  still  a  novice,  when,  as  a 

matter  of  fact "  He  paused  elaborately  and 

hoped  that  Mr.  Wattercouch  would  fill  in  the  blank 
intelligently.  "  But  it  is  premature  to  speak  of 
that,"  he  said.  "  As  to  the  registration,  I  can  send 
you  one  of  my  clerks."  He  made  a  gesture  dismiss- 
ing as  an  affair  of  pygmies  that  chief  event  of  an 
agent's  year. 

"I   see  ...  I   see,"   said  Wattercouch,  trying 


180  THE  MARBECK  INN 

hard  to  believe  that  he  had  so  far  been  looking  at 
Sam  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope.  "  And 
you  yourself,  Mr.  Branstone?  " 

It  tempted  Sam,  that  tone  of  quite  startled  re- 
spect which  Wattercouch  adopted  now.  The  mis- 
fortune of  Sam's  imaginative  flights  was  that  he 
never  knew  when  to  stop.  All  that  he  cared  about, 
at  the  moment,  was  to  give  Wattercouch  the  im- 
pression that  Sam  Branstone  was  too  important  to 
be  asked  to  drudge  at  registration  work.  He  was 
in  no  hurry  about  politics,  but  when  he  began  it 
would  not  be  as  a  volunteer  clerk. 

"  I?  "  he  replied.  "  Two  things.  One  a  fact  and 
the  other  a  prophecy.  The  fact  is  that  I  am  an 
orator,  and  the  prophecy  is  that  Sir  William 
Gatenby  will  not  live  long  and  that  I  shall  take  his 
place  as  member  for  the  Division.  Have  you  a 
cold?"  he  added,  as  Wattercouch  choked  with  ir- 
resistible stupefaction. 

He  had  not  a  cold,  neither  had  he  powers  of 
speech  just  then,  and  the  silence  grew  emphatic 
without  in  the  least  disconcerting  Sam.  Once 
launched  on  the  sea  of  bluff,  Sam  was  a  hardy  navi- 
gator, and  he  had  the  moral  support  of  knowing 
that  his  whole  purpose  just  now  was  to  avoid  being 
a  clerk.  To  avoid  being  a  clerk  it  is  justifiable  to 
do  more  than  to  romance :  it  is  justifiable  to  commit 
most  of  the  crimes  in  the  Newgate  Calendar.  Sam 
was  hardly  asked  to  do  that,  but  Wattercouch's 
cough  was  a  challenge,  and  a  bluff  half -bluffed  is 
worse  than  no  bluff  at  all.  It  became  a  matter 
of  pride  to  convince  this  unbeliever. 

"  I  intend,"  said  Sam  with  aplomb,  "  to  do  a  good 
deal  of  platform  for  the  Party.  If  an  election 


THE  POLITICAL  ANIMAL  181 

comes  soon,  so  much  the  better.  I  shall  take  the 
opportunity  to  make  myself  more  popular  with  the 
electors  than  Sir  William  Gatenby  is.  That  is 
easy.  He  quotes  Latin  in  election  speeches,  and 
I'm  a  man  of  the  people.  After  that,  I  expect  to 
contest  a  by-election  for  a  seat  which  the  Party  re- 
gards as  a  forlorn  hope.  If  it  is  possible  to  win 
that  seat  for  our  Great  Cause,  I  shall  win  it.  If 
not,  I  shall  trust  to  two  things,  the  senile  decay  of 
Sir  William  Gatenby  and  the  discretion  of  the 
Whip's  office." 

Wattercouch  was  adapting  himself  painfully  to 
the  new  perspective.  He  granted  that  Sam  had 
plausibility,  and  an  assurance  which  nearly  lent 
conviction  to  his  astonishing  statement. 

"  You  are  in  touch  with  the  Whips !  "  he  gasped. 

Sam  remembered  and  varied  an  old  formula. 
"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  asked  indignantly,  "  that  I 
should  be  speaking  to  you  like  this  if  I  were  not?  " 

Wattercouch  did  not  suppose  it.  For  one  thing 
he  was  acquainted  with  the  devious  ways  of  Whips, 
and  nothing  that  those  secretive  autocrats  did  could 
surprise  him :  for  another,  he  wished  to  believe  what 
Sam  wished  him  to  believe.  He  saw  in  Sam  the 
way  out  of  a  dilemma. 

His  dilemma  was  a  common  one.  A  death  had 
caused  a  vacancy  in  the  Town  Council,  and  the  local 
Liberal  caucus  was  almost  pathetically  embar- 
rassed as  to  its  choice  of  a  candidate.  There  were 
at  least  three  veteran  workers  for  the  Cause  who 
expected,  with  justice,  to  be  approached  and  none 
of  the  three  could  be  selected  without  offence  being 
given  to  interests  which  it  was  impolitic  to  offend. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  the  caucus :  they  left  it 


182  THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  Wattercoueh,  the  general  handy  man,  to  make 
suggestions,  and  as  he  listened  to  Sam  he  thought 
he  had  found  a  candidate  who,  simply  because  he 
was  politically  unknown,  could  offend  nobody.  If 
the  obvious  men  were  wrong,  he  must  rely  on  the 
Tightness  of  the  unexpected,  and,  after  all,  Sam 
might  be  speaking  the  truth.  One  never  knew 
where  one  was  with  Whips,  and  here  was  his  chance 
to  propitiate  Sam  and  at  the  same  time  to  solve 
the  problem  which  troubled  the  caucus.  Sam  was 
a  dark  horse  and  he  wished  he  knew  more  about 
him;  it  was  startling  to  come  in  search  of  a  vol- 
untary clerk  and  to  find  a  candidate;  but,  finally, 
he  saw  it  as  a  legitimate  case  for  taking  a  risk. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  very  pretty 
respect  in  his  voice,  "  whether  municipal  politics 
will  appeal  to  a  man  of  your  calibre,  but  there  is  a 
vacancy  in  St.  Mary's  Ward,  and  I  hardly  think 
there  will  be  any  difficulty  about  your  adoption  as 
candidate  if  you  cared  to  stand." 

Sam  pretended  to  reflect.  The  truth  was  that 
the  prospect  of  an  immediate  seat  in  the  Council 
made  his  heart  beat  fiercely.  He  had  meant  for  a 
while  longer  to  put  business  before  politics,  but  this 
sort  of  politics  was  business.  The  Council  took  up 
one's  time,  but  conferred  a  prestige  on  Branstone 
and  the  Branstone  Publications  which  would  more 
than  compensate  for  the  waste  of  time. 

And  it  was  deliciously  unexpected.  He  had  not 
studied  to  impress  Wattercoueh,  but  had  talked  ex- 
altedly  simply  to  excuse  himself  from  the  unseen, 
thankless  drudgery  of  organization:  yet  it  seemed 
he  had  impressed.  Virtually,  he  was  offered  a  seat. 
He  was,  this  soon,  to  sit  where  Travers  had  sat,  to 


THE  POLITICAL  ANIMAL  183 

be  a  City  Father  before  he  was  thirty-five.  He  had 
romanced  glibly  about  a  bird  in  the  bush,  and  found 
himself  grasping  a  bird  in  hand,  and  no  contempti- 
ble fowl  either. 

"  We  must  despise  nothing,"  he  said,  "  which 
makes  for  Liberalism."  Wattercouch  nodded  with 
enthusiasm.  "  Of  course,"  Sam  went  on,  "  strictly 
between  ourselves,  the  Council  is  small  beer.  But 
it  is  for  the  Cause,  and  if  I  were  asked  to  stand, 
you  may  take  it  that  I  should  not  allow  the  larger 
view  I  have  of  my  ultimate  activities  to  interfere 
with  my  acceptance.  I  take  pleasure  in  duty  and  I 
see  it  as  my  duty,  even  if  it  involves  the  postpone- 
ment of  my  Parliamentary  ambitions,  to  throw  my- 
self  wholeheartedly  into  this  conflict."  He  was 
wonderfully  pious. 

Wattercouch  was  less  emotional.  He  had  heard 
too  many  speeches  from  prospective  candidates  to 
be  carried  away  by  Sam's.  "  Quite  probably  there 
will  be  no  contest,"  he  said  dryly.  "  It's  a  safe 
Liberal  seat." 

"  I  should  have  preferred  a  fight,"  Sam  lied  wist- 
fully. "  But  I  put  duty  first." 

As  a  fact,  there  was  no  contest,  and  if  each  of 
the  three  veteran  workers  thought  himself  ag- 
grieved, he  had  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  the 
other  two  shared  his  grievance.  Wattercouch  was 
discreetly  mysterious  about  Sam  in  the  inner 
councils  of  the  local  Party,  used  Gatenby's  name 
freely  and  managed  to  convey  that  Branstone  was 
something  much  bigger  than  he  appeared  to  be. 
He  had,  at  least,  got  them  out  of  their  quandary. 

Nor  did  Sam  discredit  his  sponsor  either  at  the 
private  meeting  he  addressed  or  at  the  public  one 


184  THE  JMARBECK  INN 

which  followed.  He  had  said  he  was  an  orator, 
Wattercouch  had  repeated  it  indefatigably,  and 
Sam's  audience  believed  it  implicitly.  He  was  not 
quite  an  orator,  but  was  coming  along  nicely  under 
the  tuition  of  an  old  actor  who  had  failed  on  the 
stage  and  now  called  himself  a  professor  of  elocu- 
tion. 

He  became  Mr.  Councillor  Branstone,  and  happy 
little  references  to  the  event  began  to  appear  in  the 
papers.  The  Sunday  Judge,  for  instance,  had  "  no 
doubt  that  Mr.  Branstone  will  live  to  look  back 
upon  his  unopposed  return  to  the  Council  as  a 
minor  episode  of  his  political  career,  and  we  speak 
by  the  book.  Branstone  will  go  far,  but,  mean- 
time, it  is  something  even  for  him  to  know  that  he 
'is  the  most  popular  man  in  St.  Mary's  Ward.  We 
had  almost  written  in  the  whole  city,  but  that  would 
be  to  anticipate.  How  is  it  done?  How  is  such 
popularity  achieved?  How,  in  other  words,  did 
merit  become  recognized?  Mr.  Branstone  himself 
only  smiled  when  we  asked  him,  but  his  smile  is 
half  of  his  secret  and  his  rousing,  earnest  oratory 
the  other  half.  They  are  indeed  an  open  smile  and 
an  open  secret.  But  there  are  other  secrets  less 
open.  All  we  shall  say  now  is,  *  Watch  Branstone. 
He  will  not  disappoint  you.' ' 

There  was  a  low  evening  paper,  run  in  the  Con- 
servative interest,  which  fastened  on  the  phrase 
"  other  secrets  less  open  "  and  published  the  scur- 
rilous statement  that  one  of  the  less  open  secrets 
was  the  fact  that  Mr.  Councillor  Branstone's 
mother  was  a  charwoman,  but  the  paragraph  ap- 
peared only  in  the  early  edition  and  unaccountably 
disappeared  from  later  issues.  It  did  no  harm,  as 


THE  POLITICAL  ANIMAL  185 

first  editions  are  not  published  for  politicians,  but 
for  sportsmen,  and,  in  any  case,  there  was  a  brief, 
but  dignified,  eulogy  of  Mr.  Branstone  in  the  Man- 
chester Warden  next  day.  That  paper  happened, 
fortunately,  to  be  Liberal  in  politics,  and  indeed  to 
be,  on  just  occasion,  a  valiant  log-roller.  It  rolled 
a  log  for  Sam ;  the  popularity  of  Branstone  was  es- 
tablished, hall-marked  by  the  Press;  and  it  was 
about  this  time  that  Stewart's  second  potboiler  was 
accepted  for  inclusion  in  Branstone's  Novels.  The 
terms  were  even  more  favourable  to  the  author  than 
before. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  VERITY   AFFAIR 

THE  curse  of  the  Wandering  Jew  is  upon  the  adver- 
tiser: he  must  move  perpetually.  Not  that  Sam 
would  have  been  in  any  case  content  to  sit  idly  on 
a  seat  in  the  Council  Chamber.  He  hadn't  the 
sedentary  gifts,  nor  was  he  of  the  breed  of  Ada, 
who,  the  state  of  matrimony  once  achieved,  existed 
in  contemplation  of  a  glory  which  was  even  more 
vegetable  than  animal. 

He  had  to  do  something  to  justify  a  paper  repu- 
tation for  popularity  and  he  had  even  to  convince 
himself  that  he  would  not  soon  wake  up  to  find  it 
all  a  dream.  It  had  happened  too  easily  to  be  true, 
or,  at  least,  safe.  Wattercouch  had  hinted  that 
things  were  expected  of  him. 

They  were,  of  course,  expected  of  him  as  a  Lib- 
eral, and  Sam  was  not,  in  fact,  a  Liberal  but  a  Con- 
servative. A  Conservative  is  a  man  who  conserves, 
who  says  "  Aye  "  to  the  words  of  Giovanni  Mala- 
testa. 

"  What  I  have  snared,  in  that  I  set  my  teeth 
And  lose  with  agony." 

Sam  had  snared,  he  proposed  to  go  on  snaring 
and  never  to  lose  what  he  had  snared.  Whereas  a 
Liberal  is  a  Conservative  weakened  by  sentimental 
compassion  for  the  dispossessed.  He  is  not  the  op- 


THE  VERITY  AFFAIR  187 

posite  of  a  Conservative,  but  a  Conservative  who 
is  weakminded,  or  timid  or  scrupulous  enough  to 
think  himself  a  robber  and  to  propose  to  give  the 
poor  some  five  per  cent  of  his  plunder.  The  op- 
posite of  a  Conservative  is  an  anarchist. 

Politically  he  was  a  Liberal  because  he  thought 
the  Liberals  certain  to  come  in  for  a  long  innings 
at  the  next  election,  and  if  there  was  any  feeling 
about  it  at  all  (beyond  a  desire  to  be  on  the  win- 
ning side),  it  was  for  the  pudgy  orator  whose  tre- 
mendous sentences  had  caught  his  imagination 
when  he  visited  the  House  of  Commons. 

What  he  did  became  known  as  the  Verity  affair. 
It  might  with  equal- and  perhaps  superior  justice 
have  been  called  the  Branstone  affair  but  for  that 
malicious  impulse  which  causes  people  to  refer  to 
a  scandal  by  the  name  of  the  exposed  rather  than 
the  exposer.  It  is  like  the  odium  which  we  attach 
to  a  man  wrho  has  been  in  prison,  where  he  had  al- 
ready had  his  punishment.  Mankind  is  resolute 
against  letting  sleeping  dogs  lie. 

Mr.  Alderman  Verity  was  an  elder  statesman  of 
the  Council  and  a  Conservative  of  the  honest,  un- 
yielding type  who  thought  that  to  approve  of  Tory 
Democracy  was  to  be  either  a  rogue  or  a  fool,  and 
Sam  objected  to  him  not  because  he  wTas  a  Con- 
servative, but  for  deeper  reasons.  Verity  was  the 
landlord  of  Sam's  offices.  Every  tenant  objects  to 
every  landlord. 

One  calls  Verity  an  honest  Conservative  because 
he  made  no  concessions,  not  because  he  was  himself 
a  fount  of  honour.  He  had  no  sympathy  with  the 
modern  mawkishness  about  pampering  the  people. 
He  admitted  that  one  had  to  make  promises,  that 


188  THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  way  to  win  elections  was  to  tickle  the  elector 
as  if  he  were  a  trout,  but  as  an  Alderman  he  sat 
above  the  cockpit  of  electioneering  and  frowned 
upon  the  Liberal  attitudes  to  which  younger  Con- 
servatives descended  to  catch  a  vote.  And  their 
view  that  the  Council  existed  for  the  people  hon- 
estly revolted  him :  it  was  so  patently  the  other  way 
about. 

The  particular  instance  was  Baths  in  Hulme. 
He  saw  no  sense  in  Baths  in  Hulme.  He  was  quite 
sincere  in  his  belief  that  to  build  Baths  in  Hulme 
was  to  cast  pearls  before  swine.  Hulme  had  not 
asked  for  Baths  and  did  not  want  Baths.  Baths 
were  opportunities  for  cleanliness  and  Hulme  did 
not  want  to  be  clean.  Hulme  would  not  be  Hulme 
if  it  were  clean. 

The  uncleanliness  of  Hulme  was  an  institution. 
Conservatives  conserve  institutions,  and  the  only 
thing  which  could  remove  his  Conservative  and 
Aldermanic  objection  to  Baths  in  Hulme  was  self- 
interest.  Self-interest  is  the  greatest  institution 
of  them  all. 

He  continued  to  oppose  the  young  bloods  of  his 
Party  because  for  a  long  time  he  did  not  see  where 
his  self-interest  came  in.  He  even  opposed  them 
publicly.  He  said  in  public  that  Baths  in  Hulme 
were  a  nasty,  pandering,  Liberal  idea  and  that  no 
decent-minded  Conservative  could  think  of  it  with- 
out nausea.  And  then,  suddenly  and  silently,  he 
was  found  to  be  with  those  who  proposed  that 
Hulme  should  bathe  if  it  wanted  to.  His  change  of 
mind  coincided  with  the  discovery  that  there  was 
no  open  space  in  Hulme  where  Baths  could  be 
erected.  Something  would  have  to  come  down  that 


THE  VERITY  AFFAIR  189 

the  Baths  might  go  up,  and  what  would  come  down, 
and  wrhy,  was  the  secret  of  Mr.  Alderman  Verity 
and  one  or  two  others  of  the  Old  Gang  who  had  the 
habit  of  standing  loyally  by  each  other  when  a  lit- 
tle simple  jobbery  was  in  question.  Really,  it  was 
too  simple  to  be  reprehensible.  If  a  Town  Council 
can  by  one  and  the  same  resolution  clear  away  a 
slum,  and  confer  Baths,  who  benefits,  and  doubly, 
but  the  Town?  Naturally,  the  slum  owner  has  to 
be  compensated,  though  adequate  compensation  can 
hardly  be  put  high  enough.  Slums  are  so  profita- 
ble. 

Wattercouch  had  many  preoccupations  just  now, 
but  his  vigilance  was  a  habit,  and  he  was  struck  by 
the  change  in  Mr.  Alderman  Verity's  attitude.  The 
silence  which  succeeded  his  eloquence  seemed 
pregnant  with  something,  and  Wattercouch  won- 
dered with  what.  It  was  an  error  of  judgment  in 
the  Alderman  not  to  be  ill  at  this  time,  but  he  had 
covered  his  tracks  and  the  affair  was  prejudged, 
settled  before  it  ever  came  before  the  Council. 
Verity  had  neither  conscience  nor  fears  about  it, 
and  the  Conservative  Party,  with  a  prescient  eye 
on  the  imminent  General  Election,  was  going  to 
use  its  majority  in  the  Council  that  it  might  figure 
as  the  Party  which  bestowed  cleanliness  on  Hulme. 

Wattercouch  wondered  why  it  was  Simpson's 
Buildings  which  those  benefactors  of  mankind  pro- 
posed to  buy  and  demolish  so  as  to  clear  a  site  for 
their  Baths. 

"  This  might  be  your  opportunity,  Branstone," 
he  said. 

"  Isn't  it  asking  a  good  deal  of  the  junior  member 
of  the  Council  to  suggest  that  he  tackle  an  old  hand 


190  THE  MARBECK  INN 

like  Alderman  Verity?  "  asked  Sam,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  with  his  thumbs  in  his  waistcoat  arm- 
holes. 

"  We  all  expect  great  things  of  you,"  flattered 
Wattercouch,  who  had  still  to  justify  his  selection 
of  Sam  to  the  Liberal  caucus. 

"  I  don't  intend  to  fail  you,  either.  But  I  can't 
oppose  these  Baths.  A3  a  Liberal  I  am  in  favour  of 
them." 

"  So  are  we  all.  But  we  are  not  in  favour  of 
Alderman  Verity's  being  in  favour  of  them." 

"  It's  David  and  Goliath  to  pit  me  against  Verity, 
Wattercouch." 

"  David  won." 

"  And  Samuel  will  win.  But  he  will  make  a 
condition.  The  condition  is  a  free  hand.  I  want 
no  help  and  no  advice  and  I  undertake  on  that  con- 
dition to  pulverize  Verity." 

"  But  you'll  tell  me  what  you  propose  to  do?  " 

"  I  said  a  free  hand,  Wattercouch.  Leave  this 
to  me  and  I'll  settle  it." 

It  seemed  to  Wattercouch  that  every  time  he  had 
dealings  with  Sam  he  was  asked  to  take  a  gambling 
chance,  but  he  had  no  plan  of  action,  and  the  man 
without  a  plan  is  always  at  a  disadvantage  against 
the  man  who,  with  or  without  a  plan,  looks  con- 
fident. He  left  it  to  Sam  and  there  was,  as  it 
happened,  nobody  to  whom  he  could  have  left  it 
better. 

Wattercouch  had  no  inside  information  and  only 
vague  suspicions  that  Verity's  change  of  mind  was 
rooted  in  the  same  earth  as  Verity's  self-interest. 
But  Sam  knew  something  and  was  not  boasting 
idly  when  he  undertook  to  "  pulverize "  Verity. 


THE  VERITY  AFFAIR  191 

What  he  knew,  rightly  used  at  the  right  moment, 
was  dynamic  enough,  but  he  lacked  evidence  and 
he  did  not  see  how  to  get  evidence.  The  Council 
meeting  was  at  hand  and  he  was  finding  it  each 
day  more  difficult  to  grin  with  cheerful  assurance 
at  the  mutely  questioning  Wattercouch.  He  felt 
distinctly  unassured. 

The  facts  were  clear  enough  to  him.  Verity  now 
approved  of  the  Baths  because  they  were  to  be 
erected  on  the  site  of  Simpson's  Buildings,  and 
Verity  owned  that  dilapidated  pile.  He  did  not 
own  it  publicly  because  respectable  aldermen  do 
not  own  slum  property;  he  owned  it  in  the  name 
of  Mr.  Sylvester  Lamputt,  Verity's  second  cousin, 
a  man  of  straw;  and  Sam  knew  that  he  owned  it 
because  he  had  a  good  memory.  He  remembered 
a  conversation  between  Lamputt  and  Mr.  Travers, 
which  he  had  overheard,  and  all  the  present  cir- 
cumstances pointed  to  the  relations  of  Lamputt 
with  Verity  being  as  they  had  been  when  Sam  was 
in  the  estate  agent's  office. 

Verity  was  aware  that  retail  profits  are  higher 
than  wholesale,  and  small  retail  than  large  retail ; 
that  when,  for  instance,  a  poor  woman  buys  an 
ounce  of  tea  she  pays  a  higher  rate  for  it  than  when 
a  rich  woman  buys  a  pound  or  ten  pounds,  and 
similarly  that  when  a  family  rents  a  room  in  a 
slum  property  it  pays  immensely  more  for  it  pro- 
portionately than  when  a  cotton  king  rents  a  ware- 
house in  the  centre  of  the  city.  But  it  is  dignified 
to  let  a  warehouse  to  a  cotton  king,  and  disreputa- 
ble to  let  single  rooms  in  Hulme,  so  second  cousin 
Lamputt  was  the  putative  owner  of  Simpson's 
Buildings.  Sam  smiled  at  the  ludicrous  thought 


192  THE  MARBECK  INN 

of  the  burly  alderman  sheltering  behind  the  shriv- 
elled form  of  his  second  cousin  Lamputt.  It  was 
like  trying  to  hide  a  bull  behind  a  weasel. 

But  he  did  not  smile  often  in  those  days.  He 
paid  a  visit,  at  dusk,  to  Simpson's  Buildings,  and 
breathed  softly  lest  Simpson's  Buildings  should 
collapse  upon  him.  Obviously,  the  alderman  was 
finding  his  market  in  the  nick  of  time.  It  elimi- 
nated doubt,  but  did  not  provide  proof. 

He  knew  that  in  the  matter  of  Simpson's  Build- 
ings, Lamputt  was  identical  with  Verity,  but  he 
wanted  evidence,  and  to  get  evidence  he  must  rely 
upon  the  dullness  of  Mr.  Lamputt,  and  did  not 
think  that  he  was  dull.  The  totem  of  Lamputt 
was  certainly  a  ferret,  and  Sam  credited  the  ferret 
tribe  with  nimble  wit.  He  had  to  be  more  nimble, 
then. 

He  rejected  the  idea  of  making  Mr.  Lamputt 
gloriously  drunk  because  it  seemed  impossible  to 
associate  glory,  even  the  glory  of  intoxication,  with 
Mr.  Lamputt's  feeble  body.  It  was  a  case,  as  usual 
with  Sam,  of  taking  chances. 

He  did  nothing  at  all  until  the  morning  of  the 
meeting  which  was  to  decide  if  Hulme  might  bathe, 
and,  even  then,  left  his  office  only  a  little  before  his 
usual  time  for  going  to  the  Town  Hall.  He  turned 
into  a  back  street,  ran  up  many  stairs  to  the  attic 
office  whose  door  bore  the  name  of  Sylvester  Lam- 
putt, Agent  (more  sins  are  committed  in  the  name 
of  agency  than  of  charity),  and  flung  panting  into 
the  single  room. 

He  won  the  first  throw  in  his  game.  Sylvester 
was  in. 

He  sat  on  a  high  office  stool  writing  on  the  mal- 


THE  VERITY  AFFAIR  193 

odorous  page  of  an  enormous  ledger,  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  a  diminutive  office  boy  on  whom 
some  one  has  fitted,  in  cruel  jest,  a  hoary  head.  If 
the  calendars  on  his  walls  were  trustworthy  wit- 
nesses, he  was  agent  for  half  the  insurance  com- 
panies in  the  British  Isles.  Autolycus  was  Syl- 
vester's other  name. 

He  reverenced  his  ledger  as  other  men  reverence 
the  Bible.  He  kept  no  other  diary,  for  the  ledger 
was  his  book  of  life,  and  when  Sam  burst  upon  him 
he  was  absorbed  in  his  records.  He  closed  the 
book  mechanically  through  pure  secretive  habit, 
and  closed  into  it  just  enough  of  his  wits  to  put  him 
at  a  disadvantage  with  Sam. 

Sam  gave  no  quarter.  "  Mr.  Verity,"  he  gasped 
before  he  was  fairly  in  the  room.  "  Simpson's 
Buildings  .  .  .  the  title-deeds  .  .  .  here,  or  has 
Mr.  Verity  got  them  ?  " 

It  succeeded.  Lamputt  took  him  for  an  urgent 
special  messenger  from  Verity.  "  If  Mr.  Verity's 
memory  is  going,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "  mine  is 
not.  The  title-deeds  are  in  the  third  drawer  of 
his  safe  in  his  office." 

"  In  his  name?  "  asked  Sam  quickly. 

"Of  course,"  said  Lamputt,  and  then,  too 
late,  became  suspicious.  "  I  say,"  he  began, 
"  what ?  " 

But  Sam  had  gone,  and  though  Mr.  Lamputt 
reached  his  hat  and  the  door  in  one  bound  and 
careered  down  his  familiar  stairs  like  the  office  boy 
his  figure  aped,  Sam  had  turned  a  corner  and  was 
lost  to  sight.  Lamputt  raced  to  Verity's  office, 
only  to  find  that  the  alderman  was  then  attending 
a  Council  meeting.  Lamputt  could  do  no  more, 


194  THE  MARBECK  INN 

indeed  for  a  man  with  a  weak  heart  he  had  already 
done  too  much :  but  he  had  a  strong  foreknowledge 
of  the  wrath  of  Alderman  Verity,  and  goes,  an  un- 
happy, shrinking  figure,  out  of  this  story  to  an 
unknown  fate. 

Sam  went  to  the  Town  Hall  with  his  bomb-shell, 
and  they  disapprove  of  bombs  at  Council  meet- 
ings, so  he  was  sedulous  to  spare  their  feelings. 
He  supported  that  part  of  the  resolution  which 
referred  to  the  erection  of  Baths,  but  proposed  that 
it  should  stand  alone  and  that  the  naming  of  a  site 
should  be  deferred.  Curiously,  his  proposal  made 
the  Conservative  majority  very  angry:  the  resolu- 
tion was  one  and  indivisible.  Sam  regretted  that 
in  order  to  vote  against  the  misuse  of  a  particular 
site,  he  was  forced  to  vote  against  the  Baths,  but 
standing  as  he  did  for  purity  in  civic  life,  detesting 
the  very  shadow  of  jobbery,  he  had  no  alternative 
but  to  move  that  the  resolution  be  rejected.  Here 
was  a  proposal  which,  however  innocent  its  word- 
ing, did  in  fact  imply  that  ratepayers'  money  was 
to  be  handed  over  to  a  prominent  member  of  the 
party  opposite,  to  a  gentleman  in  whose  safe,  at 
whose  office,  in  the  third  drawer  of  the  safe,  were 
deposited  at  that  moment  the  title-deeds  of  the 
property  whose  acquisition  by  the  city  was  sug- 
gested. He  abhorred  personalities,  he  shrank 
from  mentioning  a  name,  and  if  the  second  part  of 
the  resolution  were  withdrawn,  he 

It  was  too  much  for  a  young,  impetuous  innocent 
opposite.  "  You  dare  not  mention  a  name.  You 
lie." 

Sam  hoped  the  Council  would  absolve  him  of 
causing  a  scene. 


THE  VERITY  AFFAIR  195 

"Prove  your  words,"  cried  the  rash  gentleman. 

"  I  suggest,"  said  Sam  blandly,  "  that  we  avoid 
unpleasantness.  I  have  made  a  statement  and  I 
am  asked  to  prove  it.  If  a  deputation  of  three  will 
go  with  me  and  Mr.  Alderman  Verity  to  his  office, 
the  title-deeds  of  Simpson's  Buildings  will  be 
found  in  the  place  I  have  indicated." 

It  was  the  sort  of  drama  which  appealed  more 
to  the  readers  of  the  evening  papers  than  to  the 
Council.  Mr.  Mayor,  in  the  chair,  was  speechless 
in  embarrassed  distress.  Sam  had  the  calm  of  im- 
perishable rock  in  wind-tossed  surf.  In  the  midst 
of  a  breathless  excitement,  Mr.  Alderman  Verity 
was  seen  to  totter  to  his  feet.  "  I  own  the  prop- 
erty," he  said,  collapsed  into  his  seat  and  graced 
that  seat  no  more. 

Impossible  even  for  a  Conservative  paper  to  up- 
hold Verity,  impossible  to  do  more  than  to  suggest 
that  Sam's  manners  were  deplorable:  while  his 
own  papers  made  a  hero  of  him,  found  his  man- 
ners a  model  of  consideration  and  his  triumph  as 
graceful  as  it  was  complete. 

All  Sam  cared  to  know  was  that  he  was  on  the 
crest  of  a  wave  of  popularity  and  a  general  election 
was  at  hand.  Night  after  night  he  spoke,  and  the 
tritest  platitudes,  with  Sam's  smile  behind  them, 
shone  like  new-found  truth.  He  was  persona 
gratissima  before  he  opened  his  mouth :  it  gave  him 
confidence,  and  confidence  is  half  the  speaker's  bat- 
tle. He  coined  some  of  those  ugly,  smart,  journal- 
esy  catch-words  which  help  to  win  elections,  and 
are  quoted  in  the  papers  and  blossom  on  the  plac- 
ards. And,  with  it  all,  he  became,  what  he  had 
prematurely  called  himself,  an  orator. 


196  THE  MARBECK  INN 

He  had  the  satisfaction  of  watching  audiences 
sit  through  the  boredom  of  Gatenby  that  they 
might  hear  Branstone,  and  of  being  himself  the 
"  star "  speaker  at  outlying  meetings.  Gatenby 
was  returned  by  a  record  majority  and  it  was  Bran- 
stone  for  whom  the  mob  yelled  outside  the  Town 
Hall. 

The  election  was  an  early  one,  and  Sam  was 
called  to  speak  in  other  constituencies.  He  had 
wires,  not  only  from  agents  in  quite  distant  divi- 
sions, but  actually  from  Headquarters.  He  was  in 
touch  with  the  Whips !  Less  than  a  year  after  he 
had  lied  to  Wattercouch,  the  lie  turned  true.  He 
was  in  touch  with  the  Whips,  a  wanted  speaker,  a 
man  of  reputation,  a  name  to  be  applauded  when 
it  was  announced  on  a  platform,  for  all  the  world 
like  people  applaud  when  the  number  of  a  star  per- 
former goes  up  on  the  announcement  board  of  a 
music-hall.  He  was  not  of  the  Great  Unwanted, 
but  of  the  few  who  were  wanted. 

Someone  discovered  at  this  time  the  old  canard 
which  had  once  appeared  in  the  first  edition  of  an 
evening  paper,  that  his  mother  was  a  charwoman. 
He  did  not  deny  it,  but  used  it  as  Wattercouch  his 
name,  making  an  asset  of  a  handicap.  He  was  of 
the  people,  blood  of  their  blood,  a  democrat  by 
birth,  knowing  their  aspirations  and  their  needs 
because  he,  too,  had  needed  and  aspired.  In  the 
heat  of  that  election  he  became  egregiously  a  Radi- 
cal. It  told,  it  "  went "  with  the  audiences :  that 
was  the  thing  that  mattered  to  Sam.  He  hadn't  so 
much  as  the  shadow  of  a  principle,  he  was  win- 
ning, on  the  winning  side,  and  pleased  himself  enor- 
mously. 


THE  VERITY  AFFAIR  197 

And  by  the  end  of  the  campaign  he  stood,  ac- 
tually, where  he  had  aimed  to  stand :  amongst  pros- 
pective candidates  who  fight,  as  it  were,  probation- 
ary elections  where  they  have  scarcely  a  sporting 
chance,  to  pay  their  footing  towards  the  sort  of 
candidature  which  gives  a  man  his  seat.  If  the 
Conservatives  had  offered  him  a  tolerably  safe  seat, 
without  preliminary  fight,  he  would  have  ratted 
eagerly,  and  the  charwoman  his  mother  would  have 
been  pressed  into  service  on  the  other  side.  It  was 
all  one  to  Sam  Branstone. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WHEN    EFFIE   CAME 

THEN  Effie  came  with  beauty,  shattering  the  life 
he  lived  as  sunshine  breaks  the  April  clouds.  At 
first  he  did  not  know  what  had  happened  to  him: 
there  was  a  radiance,  but  he  thought  it  nothing 
greater  than  her  physical  appeal.  He  was  dis- 
turbed, moved  as  nothing  had  moved  him  before  — 
not  even  applause  —  but  did  not  see  that  more  had 
come  to  him  than  loveliness  where  all  had  been  un- 
lovely. He  did  not  realize  that  there  were  greater 
things  in  Effie  than  her  comeliness. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  doctor  who  had  lived 
up  to  every  penny  of  his  income  and  died  leaving 
his  widow  nothing  but  a  cottage  in  the  country, 
which  had  been  their  week-end  haunt.  The  widow 
sold  the  practice  and  got  for  it  enough  to  keep  her- 
self, with  care,  in  the  cottage. 

There  Mrs.  Mannering  lived  unhappily,  resent- 
fully, nourishing  a  grudge  against  her  poverty,  de- 
veloping a  vein  of  hardy  thrift  unseen  till  now. 
With  management,  she  had  enough,  but  lacked  the 
gift  of  management.  She  did  not  see  things  in 
proportion,  imagined  herself  deep  sunk  in  poverty 
and  made  unreasoning  demands  on  Effie.  On  Effie, 
not  on  her  son  who  managed  a  rubber  plantation 
at  Penang  and  followed  the  spendthrift  habits  of 
his  father.  Father  and  son,  the  Mannerines  were 


WHEN  EFFIE  CAME  199 

cursed  with  a  passion  for  popularity  and  enter- 
tained with  open  house  to  all  comers.  In  the  East, 
it  cost  Rex  Mannering  more  than  it  had  cost  his 
father  at  home  and,  granted  his  habits,  he  was  right 
in  saying  that  he  could  do  nothing  for  his  mother. 
He  could  deny  himself  nothing. 

It  left  the  more  for  Effie.  She  who  was  not 
trained  to  work  must  go  into  the  world  and  fight 
not  only  for  her  bread  but  for  her  mother's  luxuries. 
Augusta  Mannering  was  merciless  in  her  demands. 
She  believed,  quite  sincerely,  that  Effle  was  gain- 
ing riches  in  the  offices  of  Manchester  and  with- 
holding a  share  from  her  in  simple  self-indulgence. 
Was  it  not  by  going  to  offices  that  Dr.  Mannering's 
rich  patients  had  been  able  to  pay  their  bills?  And 
hadn't  they  an  army  of  friends  who  used  to  eat 
their  salt? 

But  the  friends,  misunderstanding  Effie's  pride, 
offered  no  help  of  the  kind  she  could  accept.  She 
wanted  work,  not  invitations  to  houses  where,  with 
dress  and  servants'  tips,  it  would  cost  her  more  to 
live  than  in  the  rooms  she  found  in  Rusholme. 
She  had  not  the  means  to  be  decorative  now,  and  it 
occurred  to  nobody  that  Effie  was  a  clerk,  wanting 
a  clerk's  place.  They  could  not  think  of  her,  that 
brilliant  girl,  shackled  to  a  typewriter.  They  did 
not  offer  what  she  wanted  and  she  was  too  proud 
to  ask. 

Then  memories  are  short,  especially  of  the  popu- 
lar men  wrho  buy  their  popularity  across  the  dining- 
table  and  charge  high  fees  to  the  unwell  to  procure 
high  feeding  for  the  well;  and  when  the  Manner- 
ings  disappeared,  Augusta  to  her  cottage  and  Effie 
to  Rusholme,  there  were  few  inquiries  made. 


200  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Some  other  entertainer  stepped  into  the  breach 
of  local  hospitality;  Effie's  net-play  became  a 
legend  on  their  tennis  lawns;  and  she  herself  was 
deemed  to  be  with  her  mother  in  the  country,  shin- 
ing on  other  courts-  than  theirs. 

It  was  not  pure  callousness,  but  things  are  as 
they  are,  and  one  cannot  live  by  money  and  then 
lose  money  without  losing  more  than  money. 

Effie  went  into  the  city  unfriended  and  alone, 
and  her  mother  lived,  a  miser,  in  her  cottage.  She 
wrote  to  Effie  that  she  needed  this  and  that;  that 
Effie  must  spare  of  her  abundance  or  her  mother 
must  starve,  and  Effie  out  of  her  thirty  shillings  a 
week  did  send,  but  her  mother  did  not  buy.  She 
warmed  her  hands  at  a  bank-book,  wore  ancient 
clothes  and  watched  her  credit  grow.  It  was  more 
than  a  perversion  of  her  old  extravagance,  it  was 
insanity  and  Effie  knew  it.  To  keep  an  insane 
woman  moderately  happy,  she  sacrificed  necessi- 
ties. That  is  why  she  was  shabby  when  she  came 
into  Mr.  Branstone's  office  for  the  post  of  typist 
one  bright,  revealing  afternoon  soon  after  his  party 
had  triumphed  at  the  polls  and  he  had  made  him- 
self a  figure  on  the  hustings. 

Effie  had  found  companionship  in  Kusholme,  and 
knew  by  now  the  difference  between  the  friendship 
which  is  given  and  the  friendship  which  is  bought. 
She  had  become  expert  in  friendship,  and  Sam, 
from  their  first  encounter,  seemed  to  her  more  like 
a  friend  than  an  employer.  By  then,  she  had  ex- 
perience of  employers.  That  was  why  she  was  out 
of  work. 

It  wasn't,  of  course,  the  normal  Sam  she  met, 
but  a  Sam  exalted,  genuinely  raised  and  not  merely 


WHEN  EFFIE  CAME  201 

puffed  up,  by  his  electioneering  notoriety.  He  had 
a  new  self-confidence;  it  seemed  to  him  that  little 
was  beyond  his  reach,  that  he  might  even  hope  to 
come  to  terms  with  Effie.  Not,  that  is  to  say,  to 
such  terms  as  her  last  employer  had  proposed. 
Sam  was  not,  in  these  matters,  the  average  sensual 
man.  The  point  was,  and  it  was  to  his  credit,  that 
he  discerned  something  fine  in  Effie  even  at  this 
stage,  and  the  mood  of  confidence  gave  him  to  hope 
that  he  might  not  seem  commonplace  to  her.  Al- 
ready, that  afternoon,  he  cared  so  much.  Her 
opinion  mattered. 

It  mattered  so  greatly  that  he  went  slowly  about 
the  business  of  surprising  her :  for  that,  of  course, 
was  what  he  thought  he  had  to  do.  She  might  not 
know  things  about  Branstone  which  it  was  good 
for  her  to  know.  He  might  be  any  employer  who 
advertised  for  a  typist,  and  he  was  not  any  em- 
ployer. He  was  Branstone,  of  the  Classics  and  the 
Novels;  town  councillor;  politician;  and  she  must 
be  told  about  him.  She  must  learn  what  manner 
of  man  he  was.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  how  much 
greater  he  was  going  to  be,  but  decided  that  could 
wait.  First  she  must  know  what  he  had  done,  be- 
fore it  came  to  telling  her  what  he  was  going  to  do, 
and  his  record  would  come  better  from  others  than 
from  himself.  In  the  office  they  knew  it  all  and, 
even  if  she  asked  no  questions,  there  was  much 
which  the  routine  work  would  tell  her  of  him. 

He  curbed  impatience  and  left  her  for  some 
weeks  in  the  general  office,  where  it  was  supposed 
that  she  was  picking  up  some  knowledge  of  the 
business  before  beginning  to  act  as  his  secretary, 
but  what  he  hoped  she  was  picking  up  was  some 


202  THE  MARBECK  INN 

knowledge  of  him.  He  had  the  idea  that  he  was 
popular  with  his  staff,  and  did  not  think  that  they 
would  libel  him  to  her. 

All  the  time  he  burned  to  have  her  sitting  with 
him  in  the  private  office.  It  was  for  that  purpose 
that  he  had  advertised  for  a  typist-secretary,  and 
to  bring  her  from  the  general  office  could  excite  no 
comment.  On  the  contrary,  to  leave  her  there  so 
long  might  look  strange  or  at  least  suggest  that 
Effie  wras  a  failure.  A  failure!  Much  he  cared 
whether  she  was  efficient  at  her  work.  Yet  she 
was  splendidly  efficient,  and  still  he  coquetted  with 
his  purpose  of  having  her  with  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  to  call  her  in  would  be  a  step  definite  and 
irrevocable,  one  which  he  wanted  and  even  yearned 
to  make,  but  about  which  he  hesitated  sensuously 
as  a  bridegroom  might  hesitate  on  the  threshold  of 
the  bridal  chamber.  He  neglected  to  make  two 
certainly  profitable  journeys  to  London  at  this  time 
because  he  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her  neck  as  she  bent  over  her  typewriter 
when  he  passed  through  the  office. 

And  he  had  hardly  spoken  to  her!  But  his 
dreams  were  vibrant  with  the  music  of  her  voice, 
swelling  like  an  organ  till  it  filled  his  life  with  new 
harmony.  It  filled  his  life  not  because  he  refused 
to  think  of  Ada,  but  because  he  could  not  think  of 
her.  Ada  wrasn't  there;  she  didn't  exist.  She 
never  had  been  there,  for  Sam,  in  the  true  sense,  so 
that  the  step  from  the  custom  which  is  nothingness 
to  complete  nothingness  was  almost  imperceptible. 
She  was  a  ghost  from  the  past  fading  in  the  radi- 
ance of  the  present.  The  sun  puts  out  the  candle- 
light. 


WHEN  EFFIE  CAME  203 

He  was  seeing  Effie,  of  course,  with  quite  gro- 
tesquely unperceiving  eyes.  She  might  have  been, 
for  all  he  saw  of  her,  the  beautiful  doll  she  em- 
phatically was  not.  Her  outside  pleased  and  sat- 
isfied his  eye,  and  he  took  it  for  granted  that  the 
woman  within  would  satisfy  him  in  the  same  way 
as  the  woman  without.  And  so,  in  the  long  run, 
she  did,  but  not  till  Sam  had  made  a  hurdle  race 
of  it  and  come  some  awkward  croppers  on  the 
course.  The  harmony  of  his  organ  dream  might 
have  been  true  prophecy;  it  certainly  was  not  pres- 
ent fact.  He  wasn't  seeing  himself  as  Effie  saw 
him,  or  the  sidelong  glances  he  cast  at  her  pretty 
neck  might  have  expressed  more  desire  to  break 
than  to  kiss  it. 

He  seemed  to  her  a  jolly  monster,  quite  lovable 
if  trained,  but  at  present  as  untrained  as  a  badly 
brought-up  dog,  and  perhaps  too  old  to  learn.  But 
it  might  be  amusing  to  see  if  he  could  learn,  and 
from  her  who  was  not  used  to  breaking  in  a  mastiff. 
That  made  the  thing  worth  while,  his  bigness  and 
the  lovableness  she  recognized  behind  the  rankness 
of  him.  Chance  might  not  come  her  way,  and  she 
thought  it  unlikely  that  it  would,  but  if  it  did,  she 
meant  to  take  it  with  both  hands.  Effie,  aged 
twenty-six,  proposed  to  herself  to  form  Sam  Bran- 
stone,  who  was  thirty-five  and  her  employer!  She 
smiled  at  her  preposterous  audacity,  but  the  more 
she  saw  and  the  more  she  heard  of  him,  the  more 
determination  bit  into  her.  Droll,  officious,  ab- 
surd —  all  these  her  idea  was,  and  she  liked  it  be- 
cause it  was  fantastic  and  because  Sam  was  Sam. 
In  Effie's  wise,  impertinent  eyes  fantasy  and  Sam 
seemed  bound  together.  And  yet  he  paid  her 


204  THE  MARBECK  INN 

wages;  he  was  a  solid  man,  a  member  of  the 
Council,  and  a  serious  politician!  She  was  im- 
pertinent indeed. 

But  he  could  not,  either  for  his  sake  or  hers, 
keep  her  for  ever  on  the  threshold.  For  all  his 
late-won  confidence  he  was  quite  pitiably  nervous, 
and  held  back  for  days  in  pure  hesitation  before 
the  simple  action  of  calling  her  into  his  office.  He 
thought  of  it  as  initiation,  a  ritual  to  which  a  high 
solemnity  attached.  He  intended  to  act  up  to  its 
solemnity,  to  usher  her  into  that  office  with  all  that 
was  most  impressive,  to  signify  to  her  the  im- 
portance of  being  secretary  to  Branstone;  and,  in- 
stead, he  who  was  wordy  fumbled  for  words,  he 
who  was  painfully  correct  dropped  two  aitches  in  a 
sentence,  and  stood  there  most  comically  aghast  at 
his  slip. 

Of  course,  the  ritual  was  finished ;  one  cannot  be 
ritualistic  and  conscious  of  aitchlessness.  Ritual 
implies  the  superhuman,  the  something,  at  least, 
which  sets  the  executant  above  the  common  clay, 
and  to  drop  an  aitch  is  human.  In  the  moment 
of  solemnity,  in  the  mouth  of  the  ritualist,  it  is 
drolly  human.  We  find  incongruity  amusing,  and 
the  more  solemn  the  occasion  the  more  readily  does 
an  impish  mirth  intrude  on  light  pretext. 

Effie  giggled.  She  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind, 
but  the  spectacle  of  his  confusion  was  too  much 
for  her.  She  hadn't  the  strength  to  resist,  and 
though  she  turned  her  giggle,  quite  neatly,  into  a 
cough,  it  was  not  before  he  had  seen. 

This  was  his  great  moment,  to  which  he  had 
looked  forward,  and  she  giggled  at  him!  He  felt 
himself  writ  down  an  ass,  and  wondered  for  the 


WHEN  EFFIE  CAME  205 

fraction  of  a  second  whether  he  would  get  more 
satisfaction  from  smacking  her  or  from  kicking 
himself.  Then  he  saw  her  looking  at  him,  and 
nothing  seemed  to  matter.  He  dropped  aitches 
and  she  giggled.  Very  well,  then  he  wasn't  a  su- 
perman, and  she  wasn't  divine.  They  were  human 
beings,  at  this  moment  in  the  relationship  of  em- 
ployer and  employed. 

"  In  future,  you  will  sit  at  the  little  desk  in  here, 
Miss  Mannering."  He  met  her  eye  defiantly  as 
he  spoke  the  "  here."  "  If  you  have  your  note- 
book you  can  take  this  letter  down." 

He  was  running  away  from  his  ruined  situation. 
To  dictate  a  letter  to  her  had  not  been  in  the  scheme 
at  all,  as  he  had  planned  it.  It  was  a  refuge,  and  a 
safe  one,  but  as  he  dictated  he  saw  in  the  letter  his 
opportunity  to  indicate  to  her  that  he  forgave  the 
giggle.  He  was  writing  to  an  author  about  a 
manuscript,  which  he  intended  to  publish,  but 
broke  off  before  he  reached  that  decisive  point  of 
his  letter. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  Here  is  the  novel  I  am 
writing  about.  I  want  your  opinion  of  it  to  fortify 
my  own  before  I  do  anything  definite.  Will  you 
have  a  look  at  it  in  here?  I'm  due  at  a  Council 
meeting  and  must  go." 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Branstone,"  she  said ;  "  but  my 
judgment  isn't  very  reliable." 

"We  don't  know  that  until  you  try,"  he  said, 
escaping  from  his  office  to  the  Town  Hall,  where  he 
kicked  his  heels  for  an  hour  till  the  meeting  began. 
Nor  did  he  return  to  business  that  day.  He  had  a 
shyness  and  a  feeling  of  deflation.  He  needed  time 
before  he  could  expand  again. 


206  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Effie  took  her  reading  of  the  novel  conscien- 
tiously rather  than  seriously,  not  supposing  that  her 
verdict  either  way  would  go  for  anything,  but  ap- 
preciating his  hint  of  confidence,  and  the  fact  that, 
considered  as  work,  novel-reading  was  pleasant. 
And  not  finishing  the  manuscript  at  the  office,  she 
took  it  home  with  her  to  Eusholme. 

In  Rusholme  the  landladies  are  a  little  human- 
ized from  their  primitive  Grundyism,  partly  by  the 
girl  clerk,  but  mainly  because  few  of  them  have 
avoided,  at  one  time  or  another,  the  theatrical 
lodger,  a  valiant  tilter  at  conventionalities;  and 
it  is  possible  for  a  woman  in  lodgings  to  be  called 
upon  by  a  man  in  the  evening  without  being  evicted 
as  a  sinner.  One  must,  of  course,  choose  one's 
landlady  with  discretion. 

Effie,  who  had  not  had  the  opportunity  of  select- 
ing her  parents  and  had  suffered  accordingly,  chose 
her  landlady  with  discretion.  By  now  she  had  her 
friends,  those  she  had  made  in  Manchester,  not 
those  she  inherited  from  her  father;  there  were 
men  amongst  them,  and  they  came  to  see  her. 
Often,  in  fact,  and  especially  on  Sundays,  her  room 
was  over-crowded;  but  a  bed,  in  the  semi-disguise 
of  a  travelling  rug,  holds  many  callers,  and  they 
solved  the  problem  of  hospitality  by  bringing  each 
a  contribution  to  the  feast. 

To-night  she  had  one  caller,  Stewart,  who,  hav- 
ing been  brought  one  Sunday  by  a  man  who  knew 
a  woman  who  was  a  fellow-clerk  with  Effie  at  her 
last-but-one  place,  had  formed  the  habit  of  coming 
as  often  as  he  could.  He  was  not  at  the  Warden 
office  that  night,  for  the  same  reason  which  ac- 
counted for  his  not  knowing  that  she  had  gone  to 


WHEN  EFFIE  CAME  207 

Branstone's.  He  was  convalescent  after  influenza, 
too  limp  to  write  the  super-journalism  of  the  War- 
den, well  enough  to  come  out  to  take  the  tonic 
called  Effie. 

"  I  ought  not  to  let  you  in  to-night,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  Heaven  for  that,"  he  said,  coming  in. 
"  Doing  what  one  ought  is  the  dullest  thing  I  know 
—  unless  you're  really  serious,  Effie?  In  which 
case  I'll  go."  His  hand  was  on  the  door-knob. 

"  I'm  really  serious,"  she  said  with  mock  impres- 
siveness.  "I'm  working  overtime.  Behold!" 
She  threw  herself  on  the  bed  with  the  manuscript 
in  hand.  "  This,"  she  announced,  "  is  Work." 

"  I  can  believe  it,"  he  said,  "  because  that  looks 
like  the  typescript  of  a  novel.  If  it  were  mine  it 
would  be  a  pleasure  to  read ;  but  as  it  is  not  mine, 
it  is  probably  work." 

"  Oh,  it's  work  all  right,"  she  said.  "  Hard 
labour,  too.  I'm  reading  it  by  order  of  my  new 
chief.  He  publishes  things  like  this." 

Stewart  sat  up.  "  Not  Branstone? "  he  said. 
"  Don't  say  you've  gone  to  Sammy !  " 

"  Yes.     Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  Know  him?  I  invented  him.  Bit  of  a  Frank- 
enstein for  all  that.  Better  say  I  know  most  of 
him.  He  can  still  spring  surprises  on  me,  and  you 
in  his  office  are  one  of  'em." 

"  Why?    Don't  you  like  his  office?  " 

"  It's  an  office.  So  long  as  you've  to  be  in  an 
office,  you  could  pick  worse  —  easily.  Sammy's  a 
stream  with  a  lot  of  shallows  in  him,  but  there  are 
also  depths,  and  I've  never  fathomed  them. 
There's  mud  in  him,  but  it's  not  the  nasty  sort  of 
mud." 


208  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  I've  seen  that  much,"  she  said.  "  Polluted  but 
curable." 

"  You're  not  by  any  chance  thinking  of  yourself 
as  a  Branstone  River  Conservancy,  are  you?  " 

"  I  rather  like  him,  Dubby,"  she  said. 

"  Good  Lord !  You  and  Sam !  I  say,  old  thing, 
no  offence,  but  you  know  he's  married?  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Effle.     "  What's  she  like?  " 

"  Haven't  seen  her  since  I  was  his  best  man. 
Wasn't  tempted  to  see  more  of  her." 

"It's  as  bad  as  that?" 

"  Oh,  rather  worse,  I  believe.  Pitch  that  novel 
over.  I'll  tell  you  in  five  minutes  if  it's  any  use." 

"  Five  minutes  isn't  very  fair  to  the  author,"  she 
protested. 

"  Oh,  quite.  I'm  a  reviewer,  and  reviewing's 
badly  paid.  It  teaches  you  to  rip  the  guts  out  of  a 
novel  quickly.  Smoke  that  cigarette  and  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  by  the  time  you're  through." 

He  fluttered  the  pages  while  she  smoked.  "  Ut- 
ter," he  decided.  "  Utter." 

"  I  haven't  finished  it,"  she  said;  "but  so  far  I 
agree  with  you." 

"You'll  agree  with  me  to  the  end.  Pluperfect 
trash.  Sam  will  love  it." 

"What!" 

"  You'll  see.     It's  just  his  line." 

"Aren't  you  trying  to  prejudice  me  against 
him?" 

He  stared.  "  I'm  trying  to  save  you  the  trouble 
of  reading  the  beastly  thing.  I've  given  you  ex- 
pert opinion.  It's  trash  and  the  brand  of  trash 
that  he  likes.  Didn't  I  tell  you  there  was  mud  in 
Sam?" 


WHEN  EFFIE  CAME  209 

"  You  told  me  you  invented  him.  I  don't  believe 
your  influence  has  been  for  good." 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  a  fellow,  Effle ;  I  only  intro- 
duced him  to  the  mud.  I  didn't  know  he'd  wal- 
low. Anyhow,  let's  talk  of  something  else." 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  you  do  influence  peo- 
ple, Dubby." 

"  Of  course.  That's  what  I'm  paid  for.  I'm  a 
journalist.  Have  you  never  heard  of  the  power  of 
the  Press?  It  means  a  lot  of  little  journalists  like 
me  writing  as  their  editors  tell  'em  to.  But  I  don't 
appear  to  have  much  influence  on  you.  I  asked 
you  to  change  the  subject  and  you're  still  thinking 
about  Sam." 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed,  "  I'm  still  thinking  of  Sam." 

"  You  and  Sam !  "  he  repeated,  looking  incredu- 
lously at  her. 

Effle  nodded.  "  But,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know 
yet." 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  "You're  sure,  Effie? 
You're  sure  you  don't  know  about  him  yet?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Then  you  do  know  about  me?  Effie,  I've  got 
to  ask.  Are  you  sure  about  me?  " 

She  met  his  eyes  bravely,  knowing  that  she  must 
hurt.  She  was  sure  she  did  not  love  Stewart,  who 
was  free,  and  not  sure  about  Branstone,  who  was 
married.  "  I  am  quite,  quite  sure,  Dubby,"  she 
said  softly. 

"  I  see,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I'm  not  the  sort  that 
pesters,  but  if  you  want  me,  Effie,  if  you  find  you 
want  me,  I'll  be  there.  I  ...  I  suppose  I'd  better 
go  now.  It  will  take  some  doing  to  change  the 
subject  after  this." 


210  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Dubby,  I'm  sorry.  You're  not  well,  and " 

She  could  see  him  trembling. 

"  Not  that,  old  thing,"  he  interrupted.  "  Not 
pity.  That  would  make  me  really  ill.  Love's  just 
a  thing  that  happens  along,  but  one  starter  doesn't 
make  a  race."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "  Well,  doc- 
tor's orders  to  go  to  bed  early.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  Dubby,"  she  said,  and  added  hesi- 
tatingly: "You'll  come  on  Sunday?" 

"  Lord,  yes,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  love  and  run 
away.  Good-night." 

She  sat  for  a  long  while  staring  into  vacancy, 
then  found  that  something  wet  was  dropping  on 
her  hands.  She  bathed  her  eyes  and  took  the  novel 
up  again.  A  proposal  occupied,  she  found,  twelve 
pages  of  turgid,  emotional  dialogue ;  but,  of  course, 
her  experience  might  be  limited.  Certainly  it  did 
not  confirm  the  book's  verbosity. 

She  was  quite  sure  that  she  did  not  want  Dubby 
Stewart.  He  did  not  strike  her  as  humorous  at 
all. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EFFIE  IN   LOVE 

SEVERAL  causes  combined  to  make  her  think  of 
Sam,  too,  as  not  at  all  humorous  when  she  saw  him 
in  the  morning.  Unlike  him,  she  was  not  at  her 
best  in  the  early  hours  of  the  day,  and  the  strain 
of  arriving  at  an  office  by  nine  a.m.  was  one  from 
which  she  did  not  recover  for  some  time.  She 
hated  business,  but  without  that  cross  of  early  ris- 
ing she  might  have  found  it  almost  tolerable. 

She  woke  that  day  to  her  landlady's  rap  more 
resentfully  than  usual.  The  world  was  disgust- 
ingly mismanaged.  Why  couldn't  she  love  Dubby, 
who  was  free?  She  couldn't,  but  she  hated  Sam 
for  being  married.  He  had  no  right  to  be  married. 
"  Damn  Mrs.  Sam !  Damn  her ! "  she  said 
heartily,  by  way  of  a  morning  prayer,  as  she  ran 
hairpins  viciously  into  her  glorious  hair.  "  But 
I'll  cure  him  of  mud,"  she  added,  as  she  raced  down- 
stairs to  swallow  the  tea  and  toast  which  she  took 
almost  in  the  same  rush  that  carried  her  from  her 
bedroom  to  the  tram. 

She  reached  the  office  and  walked  into  Sam's 
room  to  find  him  already  in  possession.  His  ob- 
vious briskness  at  that  hour  struck  her  as  almost 
indecent;  it  was,  at  any  rate,  another  cause  for 
resentment,  and  one  of  which  he  was  himself  quite 
blandly  unaware. 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

He  was  not  stealing  a  march  upon  her  any  more 
than  he  habitually  stole  marches  on  the  rest  of  the 
world.  He  knew  that  early  morning  suited  him, 
and  used  it  to  advantage.  They  were  certain  in 
town  that  Branstone  had  luck  rather  than  brains 
because  he  was  lazy;  but  if  a  man  arrives  at  his 
office  at  eight  a.m.,  and  puts  in  two  hours  of  solid 
work  by  ten  o'clock,  he  is  well  ahead  of  his  fellows 
of  the  employing  class  who  go  down  to  offices  on 
the  9.21  from  home.  He  can  afford  to  appear  lazy. 

He  liked  that  uninterrupted  hour  with  the  books, 
opened  the  letters  himself,  and  had  them  annotated 
before  the  men  came,  whose  business  it  was  to  deal 
with  their  contents.  He  planned  out  the  day's 
work,  and  saw  it  in  hand  before  his  earliest  caller 
came.  After  ten,  which  is  the  first  hour  when  it  is 
etiquette  for  a  salesman  to  call,  Sam  was  never  too 
busy  to  talk  of  matters  which  were  not  strictly 
business  —  with  the  right,  the  gainful  caller.  It 
was  known  that  one  could  kill  time  pleasantly  with 
Branstone.  Branstone  was  a  lazy  fellow,  and  his 
office  a  good  place  to  sit  in  on  a  wet  afternoon, 
when  there  was  no  point  in  going  to  Old  Trafford. 

He  came  this  morning  even  earlier  than  usual, 
to  be  ready  for  Effie  when  she  came  at  nine.  He 
had  slept  off  his  embarrassment,  and  was  ready  in 
his  early  morning  ebullience  to  pooh-pooh  it.  It 
was  stupid  to  be  so  extraordinarily  sensitive  about 
an  aitch.  Accent  had  always  troubled  him,  but  he 
need  not  overrate  its  importance,  and  especially 
now  that  he  wore  the  political  badge  of  a  democrat, 
and  had  acknowledged  publicly  that  his  mother 
was  a  charwoman. 

So  he  was  here,  installed  in  his  chair  with  the 


EFFIE  IN  LOVE  213 

back  of  his  morning's  work  broken,  waiting  for  her 
when  she  came. 

No,  she  decided,  not  at  all  humorous  to-day: 
formidable,  in  fact.  He  had  all  the  advantages; 
he  was  seated;  he  was  first  upon  the  ground,  and 
that  ground  his  own,  and  he  was  abominably 
awake.  He  might  have  run  away  yesterday,  but 
this  was  the  morning  of  retrieval. 

"  Good  morning,"  he  said,  assuming  an  attitude 
of  leisure. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  said,  then  saw  that  he  was 
looking  quizzically  at  the  parcel  she  carried,  as  if, 
she  thought,  he  mistook  it  for  her  lunch.  "  I  took 
the  novel  home  to  finish,"  she  explained  nervously, 
and  called  herself  a  fool  for  giving  him  this  ready- 
made  chance  to  open  the  subject  which  of  all  things 
she  wanted  to  delay  until  her  suaver  hour  had  come. 
She  might  be  able  to  cure  him  of  mud,  but  a  doctor 
should  have  a  bedside  manner,  and  she  distrusted 
her  manners  until  the  landlady's  knock  had  ceased 
ringing  in  her  ears. 

If  she  had  not  given  him  the  chance,  he  would 
have  made  it.  He  gave  no  quarter  to  bad  starters. 
Had  he  known  of  her  weakness,  he  might  have 
spared  her.  He  might,  because  she  was  Effle;  but 
it  wasn't  his  habit  to  indulge  the  weaknesses  of 
others,  especially  a  weakness  which  he  did  not 
share,  did  not  understand,  and  denied  to  be  any- 
thing but  sloth. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  encouragingly.  "  And  the  ver- 
dict? " 

"  Does  my  verdict  matter,  Mr.  Branstone?  "  she 
asked.  He  hadn't  given  her  time  to  get  her  jacket 
off! 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  What?  Certainly  it  matters.  I  wasn't  asking 
you  to  waste  your  time  when  I  gave  you  the  manu- 
script to  read.  The  question  is  whether  we  ought 
to  publish  it,  and  the  answer  depends  on  your  opin- 
ion." 

"Is  that  quite  fair  —  to  the  author,  I  mean? 
My  opinions  of  novels  are  inexpert." 

"  That  author  can  take  care  of  himself  very 
well,"  he  assured  her.  "  He  won't  starve  if  we  re- 
fuse his  novel." 

"  I'm  afraid  my  opinions  are  also  intolerant,"  she 
said. 

"  Still,"  he  smiled,  "  I  should  like  to  hear  them." 

"  They  might  infuriate  you,  and  —  well,  I'd 
rather  not  be  sacked  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  We  will  forget  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  sack 
you.  Does  that  satisfy  you  ?  " 

Oh,  how  she  loathed  people  who  could  be  mag- 
nanimous at  nine  a.m.!  "You  are  being  very 
kind,"  she  said. 

"  And  you  are  not  giving  me  your  opinion. 
Come,  Miss  Mannering,  you've  read  it.  What  do 
you  think  of  it?  " 

Later  in  the  day  she  might  have  put  it  more 
gently.  Just  now  she  could  manage  nothing  more 
kindly  than :  "  I  think  it's  appalling.  It's  false 
from  start  to  finish,"  and  she  rejoiced  to  see  how 
much  her  vehement  candour  disconcerted  him. 
"  I've  drawn  first  blood,"  she  thought ;  but  bleed- 
ing as  a  curative  process  is  discredited. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  it  is  very  like  others  of  my 
series.  I  made  sure  it  would  be  popular." 

"  I'm  not  a  judge  of  that.  It's  possible  enough. 
And  now  " —  she  smiled  a  little  wryly  — "  I'm 


EFFIE  IN  LOVE  215 

afraid  you  know  my  opinion  of  the  series.  I 
warned  you,"  she  added  hastily,  "  that  my  opinions 
were  intolerant.  I  imagine  you  will  not  ask  for 
them  again."  She  turned  resolutely  to  the  type- 
writer and  took  its  cover  off.  She  thought  she  had 
closed  the  discussion,  and  was  suiting  action  to 
her  word,  and  sitting  at  her  desk  when  he  motioned 
her  back  to  the  chair  opposite  his.  It  was  not  the 
sort  of  motion  one  ignored. 

"  I  may  ask  for  them  again  or  I  may  not," 
he  said;  "but  in  the  meantime  I  have  certainly 
not  given  you  anything  to  do  at  that  machine, 
and  we  were  trying  to  forget  that  you  are  my 
typist." 

"  I  thought  after  what  I've  said  that  it  might  be 
time  to  remember  it,"  she  suggested. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  assured  her.  "  I  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  things,  and,  if  you  please,  we'll  have  this 
out." 

"  Of  course,  if  this  is  part  of  your  secretary's 
work "  she  began. 

He  cut  her  short.  "  It  is.  Now,  you  find  my 
novel  series  appalling?  " 

Erne  was  growing  angry.  In  vino  veritas  —  and 
in  anger.  "  I  could  go  even  further,"  she  said. 
"  I  find  it  degrading." 

He  thumped  the  desk.  "  But  it  sells,  Miss  Man- 
nering,  it  sells.  Did  you  know  that?  "  He  leant 
back  in  his  chair  in  one  of  the  attitudes  he  took 
when  he  was  scoring  heavily,  thumbs  in  his  waist- 
coat arm-holes. 

"  It's  the  most  popular  series  of  cheap  novels  on 
the  market.  See  any  bookstall,  if  you  doubt  me." 
He  paused  for  her  apology. 


216  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Effie  did  not  apologize.  "  That  does  not  alter 
my  opinion  of  it,"  she  said  coolly.  (i  A  public 
danger  isn't  less  dangerous  because  it's  large.  I'm 
afraid  I  can  believe  that  there  are  no  depths  to 
which  it  is  impossible  to  degrade  the  public  taste, 
but  that  does  not  make  me  like  any  the  better  a 
series  which  degrades  it." 

Now  a  child  is  a  child.  It  may  be  deformed,  and 
its  begetter  may  in  clairvoyant  moments  have  ac- 
knowledged the  deformity  to  himself,  but  he  re- 
sents its  being  pointed  out  to  him.  Sam  was  the 
father  of  his  series. 

"I  say!"  he  protested.     "That's  nasty." 

"  It's  a  nasty  series,"  she  said  hardily.  "  You 
are  proud  of  it  because  it  sells  when  you  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  it  because  it's  bad."  Somehow  she 
had  to  say  it.  She  couldn't  hedge  from  what  she 
saw  as  truth,  even  though  she  expected  truth  to 
hurt  him  and  to  be  hurt  in  return.  But  Sam  won- 
derfully controlled  himself.  Emphatically,  he  was 
forgetting  that  she  was  a  typist.  He  remembered 
that  she  was  Effie. 

He  addressed  the  ceiling.  "  The  fact  is,"  he 
mourned,  "that  women  do  not  understand  busi- 
ness. Even  business  women  don't.  Even  you 
don't." 

Mentally  she  thanked  him  for  his  "even  you." 
It  seemed  to  her  a  good  place  to  end  the  matter  for 
that  morning.  She  still  distrusted  her  manners, 
and  not,  she  thought,  without  reason. 

"  Consequently,"  she  told  him  quietly,  "  my 
opinion  cannot  matter,"  and  moved  as  if  to  go  to 
her  typewriter. 

He  held  her  to  her  seat.    "  That  is  to  beg  the 


EFFIE  IN  LOVE  217 

question,"  he  replied,  "and  we  were  to  have  it 
out." 

"  But,"  she  tried,  "  you  have  told  me  that  I  do 
not  understand  business." 

"And  you  did  not  believe  me." 

He  challenged  her,  in  fact.  Well,  she  must  pick 
up  his  gage.  "  I  do  not  understand  this  about 
business,  Mr.  Branstone.  What  is  it  about  busi- 
ness which  makes  a  man  like  you  content  to  be  a 
confectioner  selling  people  wares  that  give  them 
mental  indigestion?  Business!  It's  the  name  for 
half  the  meanness  and  nine-tenths  of  the  ugliness 
in  the  world.  You  see,  women  do  know  something 
about  business  to-day.  It  isn't  their  fault  that 
they  are  not  still  sitting  cosily  at  home,  hugging 
the  old  belief  that  business  is  a  dignified,  majestic 
thing  to  which  only  the  masculine  intellect  can  rise. 
It's  your  fault,  the  men's.  You  wanted  cheap 
clerks,  and  you  raised  the  veil  so  that  women  have 
seen  business  at  close  quarters,  and  the  o?.ly  thing 
they  do  not  understand  is  how  men  continued  for 
so  long  to  magnify  its  low  chicane  and  its  infinite 
humbug  into  a  cult  which  deceived  them." 

Sam  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Effie  was  not 
perfect.  She  suffered  from  hysteria,  but  she  must 
be  answered.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  think 
much  of  business.  But  you  came  into  it." 

"  I  needed  money,"  she  defended  that. 

"  So  did  I,"  he  said  dryly.  "  We're  birds  of  a 
feather." 

"  You  hate  it,  too?  "  she  asked  hopefully. 

"  Honestly,"  he  said,  "  I  like  it.  But,"  he  went 
on  with  mischief  in  his  eye,  "  I  can  tell  you  some- 
thing that  will  please  you.  You  dislike  the  novel 


218  THE  MARBECK  INN 

series.  You  think  they  degrade.  You  don't  think 
the  Classics  degrade?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  would  much  rather  that  the  Classics  sold 
largely  than  the  novels." 

"  Why?  "  She  was  eager  now.  "  Because  they 
are  great  literature?" 

"  No.  That  would  be  being  sentimental  about 
business,  and  it  can't  be  done.  Because  they  are 
not  copyright,  and  it  saves  book-keeping."  He 
grinned  at  her  discomfiture.  "  Business,"  he  de- 
fined, "is  money-getting."  He  wras  feeling  tre- 
mendously pleased  with  himself,  her  master  in 
argument.  He  gave  her  rope  indulgently,  for  she 
was  Effie;  then  crushed  her  utterly,  for  he  was 
Sam. 

"  Isn't  it  better,"  she  asked,  "  to  win  a  little 
money  decently  than  to  gain  a  great  deal  by  trad- 
ing in  poison?  Whether  you  know  it  or  not,  these 
books  are  poisonous." 

"  I  don't  know  it,"  he  said  brusquely.  "  They 
give  pleasure." 

"  So,  I  suppose,  does  opium.  There  are  lots  of 
pleasant  poisons.  Would  you  keep  an  opium  den 
if  it  paid?  If  you  were  a  milkman,  would  you 
adulterate  milk  and  poison  babies?  You  adulter- 
ate books  and  poison  minds.  For  money!  Oh, 
yes ;  I,  too,  needed  money,  and  I,  too,  came  to  busi- 
ness. But  we  are  not  birds  of  a  feather.  I  do  not 
like  business.  I  don't  like  having  to  get  money. 
I  don't  like  money,  but  I  need  it.  I've  things  to 
do  with  it." 

"  My  case  again,"  he  capped  her.  "  I've  things 
to  do  with  it."  He  saw  that  she  was  looking  at 


EFFIE  IN  LOVE  219 

him  curiously,  and  that  she  took  him  to  mean  that 
he  wanted  money  for  Ada.  Incidentally  he  did, 
but  essentially  he  did  not.  "  Politics,"  he  added. 
"  Power !  Power !  "  He  repeated  the  word  ecsta- 
tically, not  only  because  he  was  admitting  her  to 
the  intimacy  of  his  private  thought,  not  only  be- 
cause he  felt  it  an  ecstatic  idea,  but  because  he  had 
so  thoroughly  defeated  her  in  argument.  She  sat 
there  staring  speechlessly,  and  he  exulted  to  per- 
ceive that  she  was  mute  before  his  slashing  common 
sense. 

Only,  that  was  not  the  reason  of  her  silence. 
She  thought  that,  for  a  first  attempt,  she  had  gone 
far  enough,  and  had  the  hope  that  something  of 
what  she  had  said  would  remain  in  his  mind,  per- 
haps stingingly.  She  could  only  hope.  Heaven 
knew  it  had  been  a  queer  enough  interview  between 
an  employer  and  his  typist,  and  her  prayer,  as  she 
sat  there  permitting  his  exultation,  was  for  an  in- 
terruption. 

.  Her  prayer  was  answered.  Just  as  she  thought 
him  on  the  brink  of  seeing  that  her  silence  was  not 
entirely  acquiescent,  the  office-boy  brought  in  the 
name  of  a  caller  he  must  see,  and  Effie  rose  with 
huge  relief.  She  hadn't  it  in  her  to  keep  silent 
much  longer,  and  felt  that  if  she  then  let  go  all 
that  was  firing  her,  she  would  say  more  than  he 
could  stand.  True,  he  had  stood  a  good  deal,  but 
then  she  had  said  little  of  what  she  had  to  say! 
She  wanted  to  say  it  gradually,  to  lead  him,  not  to 
spur  him,  to  her  point  of  view.  Already  she  was 
taking  a  more  modern  view  of  the  virtues  of  bleed- 
ing her  patient. 

She  thought,  too,  that  his  was  the  easier  part. 


220  THE  MARBECK  INN 

She  had  ideals  for  her  Sam,  but  when  she  at- 
tempted to  define  them,  they  seemed  nebulous,  in- 
deed, against  his  simple  practice  of  expediency. 
He  had  his  theory  that  what  was  expedient  was 
just,  and  she  —  what  was  her  theory  except  that 
his  was  not  good  enough  for  him?  And  his  was  in 
possession  everywhere,  established,  honoured,  re- 
ceived of  all  but  a  trivial  minority.  He  thought 
with  the  mass  and  she  thought  mass-thinking  was 
not  good  enough  for  him.  It  was  difficult  to  ex- 
plain. He  wasn't  a  criminal,  he  wasn't  even  in- 
dividual in  thought  or  method ;  he  played  the  com- 
mon game,  playing  perhaps  a  little  more  astutely 
than  the  average,  but  keeping  honestly  within  the 
rules.  He  followed  the  crowd,  and  she  wanted  him 
to  follow  the  gleam.  A  gleam  is  indefinable,  but 
she  thought  she  had  a  chance  because  she  was  so 
much  more  grown-up  than  Sam.  Business  was  a 
game  of  marbles,  and  girls  do  not  play  with  mar- 
bles, but  with  dolls. 

He  was  not  to  remain  for  long  with  the  delusion 
that  he  had  silenced  her  in  their  first  talk.  There 
followed  many  other  talks,  although  she  was 
coming  to  the  conclusion  that  talking  would  not 
do  the  business  for  her.  It  helped,  it  made  a 
preparation  of  the  ground,  but  it  was  stubborn 
clay  in  which  he  had  his  roots.  Talking  did  not 
dig  deep  enough ;  she  must  uproot,  she  must  trans- 
plant. 

"  Politics,"  he  had  said  to  pulverize  her  argu- 
ment. 

"  Another  thing,"  she  told  him,  "  which  is  not 
quite  the  mystery  for  women  that  it  was.  Poli- 
tics, but  —  why?" 


EFFIE  IN  LOVE 

And  he  replied  with  the  word  which  had  raised 
him  to  ecstasy.  "  Power,"  he  said. 

"Yes?"  she  questioned.  "Business  leads  you 
to  money,  money  to  politics,  and  politics  to  power. 
And  after  that?  You  want  power  —  for  what?" 

"  Why,"  he  cried,  "  power  is  power." 

"  An  end  in  itself?  " 

"  At  least,  it's  an  ambition,"  he  replied. 

It  was,  and  so  had  Ada  had  her  ambition  to  be 
married,  an  end,  the  end.  He  did  not  think  of 
Ada,  but  he  found  it  difficult  to  justify  himself.  He 
could  not  even  tell  her  that  he  was  a  Liberal,  be- 
cause he  had  a  decent  hatred  of  a  Tory ;  he  wasn't 
in  politics  for  a  faith  which  enabled  him  to  endure 
their  artifice;  he  relished  the  artifice,  he  was  in 
with  an  axe  to  grind,  but  with  no  clear  idea  of  the 
use  he  wished  to  make  of  his  axe  when  it  was  sharp. 
Ambition,  purpose  narrowed  to  two  letters  —  M.P. 
He  wanted  to  be  M.P.  for  Branstone,  that  Bran- 
stone  might  hear  the  voice  of  Branstone  speaking 
in  the  House  of  Commons. 

She  watched  him  slyly,  and  thought  her  leaven 
worked.  "  Of  course,"  she  said  casually,  "  it 
would  be  useful  for  your  business  if  you  were  an 
M.P." 

"  Enormously,"  he  agreed,  marching  blindly  into 
her  little  trap.  "  It  gives  prestige  to  any  busi- 
ness." 

"  And  completes  the  vicious  circle,"  she  said. 
"  Business  takes  you  to  politics  and  politics  brings 
you  back  to  business." 

He  remembered  an  appointment  hastily,  and 
went  to  keep  it.  Sam  Branstone  stumped  for  a 
reply  was  an  unusual  phenomenon,  and  she  con- 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

gratulated  herself  again  that  it  worked.  It 
worked,  but  slowly.  She  was  not  impatient,  but 
he  was  still  doing  unchanged  the  things  she  hated 
to  see  him  do,  and  she  wanted  the  change  to  come. 
She  doubted  that  it  would  ever  come  by  talk  alone. 
One  did  not  convert  by  conversation. 

She  had  intended  to  say  so  much,  to  keep  a  steady 
pressure  on  him,  and  she  couldn't  do  it,  partly 
because  her  point  of  view  was  difficult  of  definition, 
partly  because  she  thought  no  talk,  no  matter  how 
inspired,  could  change  him  of  itself.  She  did  not 
know  of  Anne,  who  had  talked  and  kept  the  pres- 
sure up,  and  put  sacrifice  behind  the  talk  even  to 
the  point  of  thrusting  her  hand  into  the  fire;  but 
Effie,  too,  had  sacrifice  in  mind.  Anne's  sacrifice 
had  failed.  It  wasn't,  perhaps,  the  right  sacrifice : 
it  was,  at  any  rate,  the  immortal  commonplace,  the 
sacrifice  of  the  older  generation  to  the  younger,  of 
the  mother  to  the  son,  of  age  to  youth.  Spectacu- 
lar, heroic  as  it  was,  it  was  yet  in  the  scheme  of 
things,  and  it  is  the  sacrifice  of  youth  to  youth 
which  can  surprise  by  unexpectedness. 

For  some  it  is  a  sacrifice  to  cease  talking  even 
when  they  are  convinced  that  talk  is  futile.  If 
Effie  was  one  of  these,  she  made  that  little  sacrifice 
at  once.  She  never  told  him  that  his  life  was  mean 
and  ugly  and  despicable,  his  triumphs  worthless, 
his  success  a  failure,  his  highest  ambition  to  know 
that  people  grovelled  to  him,  his  money  and  his 
power.  She  did  not  say  these  things,  but  neither 
did  she  yield  an  inch  of  her  attitude  which  implied 
them. 

"  I'll  win,"  she  told  herself,  "  I'll  win." 

By  now  she  was  crusading  for  the  soul  of  Sammy 


EFFIE  IN  LOVE 

Branstone,  and  all  the  while  her  passion  grew,  fed 
as  much  by  that  in  him  which  irritated  her  as  by 
what  attracted.  She  accepted  the  fact  that  he  was 
married  and  discounted  it.  It  was  one  with  the 
other  irritants,  mattering  less  to  her,  for  it  was 
irremovable.  She  could  neglect  the  wife:  what 
mattered  was  the  man.  She  must  bring  beauty  to 
his  life. 

They  have  tamed  many  wild  things  in  a  world 
grown  standardized;  they  have  tried  for  centuries 
to  bridle  love  and  make  it  run  in  harness;  but  love 
refuses  to  be  tamed  and  standardized  by  the  mar- 
riage service.  You  don't  scare  love  away  by  the 
bogey-sign,  "  Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted." 
Love's  wild,  it's  free,  blind  to  the  handcuffs  which 
Church  and  State  pathetically  try  to  rivet  on  a 
given  pair,  lawless  because  it  knows  no  law,  time- 
less because  it  knows  no  time.  Sometimes  it  lasts 
while  a  butterfly  could  suck  a  flower's  honey,  some- 
times the  space  of  a  man's  life,  and  they  have  tried 
to  regulate  this  love,  this  volatility,  to  pretend  that 
because  it  sometimes  does  not  evaporate,  it  never 
evaporates  till  death.  They  sought  to  link  love 
with  property,  and  to  control  the  uncontrollable. 
They  make  laws  round  love,  which  is  like  enclosing 
an  eagle  in  a  cobweb ;  and  we  suffer  for  their  laws. 
We  keep  the  law  and  suffer ;  break  it  and  we  suffer. 

She  knew  that  she  would  suffer,  but  she  would 
bring  beauty  to  Sam.  He  hadn't  capitulated  to  her 
talk,  and  she  thought  that  he  had  no  chance  in 
Manchester.  Perhaps  her  Sam  was  with  her  in  his 
dreams,  but  each  dawn  brought  him  to  accustomed 
ugliness,  and  habit  clogged  his  days  with  mud. 
He  couldn't  escape,  he  wanted  wings,  and  she  was 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

there  to  bring  them  him.  He  did  not  know  there 
was  another  side  to  life,  but  she  would  show  it  him. 
He  should  see  her  beauty,  and,  through  that,  the 
beauty  of  the  other  side. 

She  was  presumptuous,  but  presumption  is  a 
quality  of  faith.  She  interfered,  but  there  are 
three  inevitable  interferences  in  life  —  birth,  love 
and  death  —  and  hers  was  one  of  these.  It  was 
them  all :  it  was  love  and  the  birth  of  the  new  Sam, 
and  the  death  of  the  old.  She  interfered,  where  she 
had  right  to  interfere.  She  loved. 

Time  passed  between  the  day  when  she  came  to 
Tier  decision  and  the  day  when  they  acted  upon  it, 
and  she  never  knew  how  long  it  was  nor  how  she 
spent  it.  She  belonged  to  a  living  fact,  and  there 
were  shadows  in  the  world,  such  as  her  work,  her 
mother,  the  silly  detail  of  arranging  to  go  away, 
and  Stewart,  a  haunting  shadow  of  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  but  these  were  unrealities  and  only  her 
idea  was  real.  She  never  remembered  how  she  put 
it  to  Sam,  nor  what  he  said,  though  she  had  a  hazy 
memory  that  he  was  desperately  shocked  and  more 
profoundly  humorous  than  ever  before.  But  she 
thought  that  he  was  only  shocked  as  the  right  thing 
shocks  by  rightness,  not  as  the  wrong  by  wrong- 
ness:  and  she  knew  that  difficulties  melted:  and 
they  came. 

They  came  to  the  Marbeck  Inn  and  entered  into 
their  kingdom  of  a  week. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    MARBECK   INN 

SAM  was  vilely  dull  about  it  all  at  first:  his  com- 
prehension, stuck  in  the  mud,  failed  utterly  to  rise 
to  the  occasion,  but  before  long  he  was  looking  back 
with  horror  on  his  turgid  mental  processes  when 
she  told  him  that  they  would  come  away  together. 

He  had  a  shadow,  not  more  than  a  shadow  of 
excuse  for  his  preposterous  misunderstanding  of 
her  case.  Sam  followed  the  crowd,  accepted  ready- 
made  their  principles  and  their  lack  of  principles, 
their  morality  and  their  immorality,  and  to  the 
crowd  he  followed  the  theory  was  faithfulness  and 
the  practice  as  much  licence  as  they  could  take 
without  being  found  out.  They  made  a  boast 
rather  than  a  secret  of  their  affairs  with  a  shop- 
girl or  a  typist.  He  had  never  had  an  affair  and 
was  flattered  to  think  that  he  was  to  have  one 
now. 

He  thought  that  an  affair  was  rather  a  manly 
thing  to  have. 

When  Effie  spoke,  he  had  a  great  surprise,  then 
cheapened  her  insultingly.  He  decided  that  he  had 
been  wrong  about  her.  After  all,  she  was  nothing 
more  than  a  pretty  typist  with  whom  he  was  going 
to  have  his  first  affair,  who  was  going  to  give  him 
the  opportunity  to  join  in  that  sly  boasting  in  hotel 
smoke-rooms  which  was  the  habit  of  his  crowd. 
He,  too,  would  rank  amongst  the  sportsmen. 


226  THE  MARBECK  INN 

But,  even  at  his  worst,  he  had  the  grace  to  doubt 
that  this  was  of  the  same  kind  as  those  other  af- 
fairs. It  had  a  lowest  common  measure  with  them, 
but  —  Effie!  Cheapen  her  as  he  would,  he  could 
not  think  of  her  as  cheap  enough  for  that.  When 
others  did  this  thing  it  was,  surely,  that  they  were 
giving  rein  to  grossness:  it  was  at  least  charitable 
to  assume  that  the  women  of  their  amours  were 
of  coarser  grain  than  their  wives,  and  Erne's  was 
not  the  coarser  grain.  He  drifted,  acquiescing  and 
puzzled,  through  the  fog  of  his  perplexity. 

Illumination  came  to  him,  not  in  the  crowded 
railway  carriage,  but  in  the  trap  which  drove  them 
from  the  station  to  the  Inn.  It  came,  he  thought, 
miraculously,  but  perhaps  the  miracle  was  nothing 
more  than  that  a  man  sees  clearly  in  Westmore- 
land, and  sees  through  dirt  in  Manchester.  He 
worshipped  Effie  who  was  sacrificing  all  to  him, 
and  with  abasement  at  the  thought  that  he  had 
meant,  with  his  pitiful  achievements,  to  surprise 
her. 

He,  shepherded  to  joy  at  the  Marbeck  Inn,  had 
set  out  to  surprise  Effie !  That  was  what  made  it, 
from  the  first  dawn  of  understanding,  a  perfect 
wonder-tale.  He  had  not  calculated  this;  it  hap- 
pened, like  a  dream,  in  the  air,  unrooted  in  pre- 
vision. But  that  was  all  it  had,  except  its  rapt 
intensity,  of  the  quality  of  dream.  It  was  dream- 
like because  it  was  more  vivid  than  his  experience 
of  life,  but  it  was  life.  Only,  he  had  not  known 
these  things  about  life  before.  He  had  underes- 
timated life. 

The  Inn  lay  in  a  saucer  of  the  hills  at  the  end 
of  a  road  which  led  to  nowhere.  As  a  road,  it 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

finished  at  the  Inn  and  went  on  only  as  a  rough 
cart-track  which  dwindled  and  divided  into  two 
trails  across  the  passes.  The  fells  came  down  in 
grandeur  to  the  Inn  —  it  wasn't  a  place  from 
which  one  looked  at  distant  hills,  but  one  where  the 
hills  were  intimately  there  —  and  half  a  mile  away 
there  was  the  Lake. 

They  were  twelve  miles  from  a  station,  at  the  end 
of  the  world,  alone  with  happiness.  Of  course, 
there  were  other  people  at  the  Inn,  but  Sam  and 
Effie  were  alone:  they  two  with  the  heather  and 
the  bracken  and  the  pines:  they  two  with  love. 

The  crowd  has  not  discovered  Marbeck.  The 
Inn,  the  Church,  the  Vicarage,  down  by  the  Lake 
the  Hall,  a  farmhouse  or  two  along  the  road,  and 
that  is  all.  Six  miles  away  there  is  a  post-office. 

He  had  followed  the  crowd  on  his  rare  holidays. 
He  knew  Blackpool  Promenade  and  Morecambe 
and  the  things  to  do  at  Douglas.  Here,  one  did  not 
do  those  things.  One  walked  and  climbed  and  lay 
extended  on  the  heather  or  in  the  perfect  isolation 
of  high  bracken,  and  bathed  in  the  Lake  or  the 
streams  or  the  tarns,  haphazard,  naked,  where  one 
liked  and  when  one  liked;  and  all  the  time  one 
breathed  the  air. 

It  needed  no  thunderous  knocking  on  the  door 
to  get  her  out  of  bed  into  the  Marbeck  air.  Sam 
would  go  for  an  early  dip  in  the  pool  below  the 
Inn  where  two  streams  cascaded  into  a  swimmable 
basin,  and  when  he  returned  she  would  be  up  or 
ready  to  get  up  that  he  might  brush  her  hair,  or  not 
up  that  she  might  play  at  being  peevish  and  be 
lifted  out  of  bed  by  him. 

And  the  food,  the  good  rough  plenty  of  the  Mar- 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

beck  Inn !  They  ate  of  it  prodigiously  and  carried 
to  the  hills  parcels  of  sandwiches  and  cakes  and 
cheese,  shamelessly  large,  which  they  emptied  to 
the  last  crumb,  and  eked  out  in  the  woods  with 
raspberries  and  nuts. 

She  took  him  on  the  Lake,  with  a  rod  borrowed 
from  the  Inn,  and  showed  him  how  to  fish.  He 
relished  it  amazingly,  catching  little  but  the  spirit 
of  the  thing,  happy  because  of  the  green  reflection 
of  the  woods  in  the  water  and  because  of  her.  His 
restlessness  found  pause  in  a  boat  with  Effle  and 
she  noted  with  a  keen  delight  that  he  did  not  envy 
the  expert  basket  of  the  postman  who  cycled  to 
Marbeck  in  the  mornings  and  fished  till  he  cycled 
away  with  the  letters  in  the  afternoon.  She 
registered  as  a  happy  gain  that  he  did  not  want  to 
shine,  or  try  to  beat  that  seasoned  fisher  at  his 
game.  Nor  did  the  posts  distract  them.  They  had 
no  letters  there. 

They  bathed  continually,  for  it  was  hot,  and  here 
again  he  made  no  effort  to  excel,  but  let  it  be  ad- 
mitted that  she  was  the  better  swimmer.  How 
much  the  better  she  did  not  let  him  know.  She 
knew  that  he  found  the  water  here  a  purer  element 
than  in  the  old  Blackfriars  Baths  where  he  had 
learnt  when  he  was  at  school,  and  she  tired  less 
rapidly  than  he  did.  But  he  wras  wondrously  con- 
tent to  own  inferiority. 

She  had  a  deep  symbolic  faith  in  bathing.  They 
were  here  to  wash  his  mud  away,  and  water  was 
cleaner  than  talk.  Talk,  indeed,  was  but  a  surface 
pattern  of  their  time.  They  hardly  needed  it,  ex- 
cept as  levity  to  mitigate  a  deep  communion  which 
sometimes  grew  almost  intolerably  sweet. 


THE  MARBECK  INN  229 

It  was  Blea  Tarn,  one  of  the  many  of  that  name, 
which  they  made  peculiarly  theirs,  their  favour- 
ite bathing-place,  their  best  lunch-room.  Erne 
stretched  herself  luxuriously  on  the  close-cropped 
turf,  at  peace  in  mind  and  body. 

"  Sam,"  she  asked,  "  have  you  noticed  that 
Frump  at  the  Inn?  She  sits  behind  me  at  din- 
ner." 

"No,"  said  Sam  truthfully.  "When  I'm  with 
you  I  notice  nobody  else.  And  I  don't  know  how 
you  saw  her  if  she  sits  behind  you." 

"  Eyes  in  the  back  of  my  head,"  she  explained. 
"  You  have  them  when  you're  a  woman.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  give  her  a  shock?  " 

"  You  would  if  she  could  see  you  now,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  but  she  doesn't  deserve  it,"  said  Effie  com- 
placently. She  surveyed  herself  and  Sam  did  the 
same.  She  pleased  them  both,  taking  her  sun-bath 
there  on  the  mossy  turf.  "  But  I  may  shock  her?  " 

"  You  may  do  anything,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  said  Effie  joyously,  and 
something  glittered  in  the  sun  and  fell  with  a 
splash  far  into  the  tarn.  "  Too  deep  to  dive  for 
it,"  she  decided.  "  Bang  goes  a  shilling  and  I'm 
glad.  I  never  liked  pretence." 

"  I  say !  "  Sam  protested,  and  then  fell  silent 
comprehendingly. 

She  looked  at  him  and  greeted  his  silence  with  a 
nod.  "  I  shan't  catch  cold,"  she  said,  holding  up 
her  finger  where  the  wedding  ring  had  been.  "  I 
feel  better  now  I'm  rid  of  that." 

The  remarkable  fact  was  that  Sam  understood. 
His  education  had  progressed  and  he  knew  that  it 
was  not  for  the  Frump  at  the  Inn  that  she  shed 


230  THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  imitation  wedding  ring  which  for  form's  sake 
he  had  suggested  she  should  wear :  it  was  for  him. 
The  ring  was  counterfeit,  it  was  a  false  symbol  of 
something  which  was  not  true :  it  had  no  place  in 
the  Marbeck  scheme. 

She  curled  up  happily  like  a  stroked  cat,  partly 
in  sheer  physical  well-being,  partly  in  gladness  at 
her  scheme's  success.  "  And  to  think,"  she 
crooned,  "  that  I  am  a  wicked  woman !  " 

"  Effie,"  he  pleaded,  taking  her  hand.     "  Don't." 

"  As  if  I  care,"  she  said,  rolling  over  on  to  her 
back  and  taking  his  hand  with  her  to  shade  her 
eyes.  "  I  might  have  been  doing  this  all  my  life." 
Indeed,  in  her  perfect  absence  of  embarrassment, 
she  might.  "  Wicked !  "  She  shied  a  stone  after 
the  wedding  ring  into  the  tarn  and  laughed  at  a 
world  well  lost.  "  The  Frump  won't  understand, 
my  dear,  but  I  think  you  do." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  said  Sam,  but  the  fullness  of 
understanding  had  not  come  to  him  yet. 

Something,  indeed,  of  her  fineness  he  did  per- 
ceive, but  not  its  whole,  its  utter  selflessness.  He 
saw,  roughly,  what  she  was  after:  that  it  was  here 
in  Westmoreland  when  she  made  her  sacrifice,  here 
when  she  lay  beside  him  in  the  sun  that  she  ex- 
pressed in  deed  what  she  had  been  baffled  to  express 
in  Manchester.  She  had  brought  him  away  from 
the  murk  and  the  fog  and  the  place  where  they 
rather  like  dirt  than  otherwise  because  dirt  means 
money,  to  where  nature  was  beautiful.  She  had 
shown  him  beauty  there,  her  beauty  and  the  beauty 
of  sacrifice  and  the  beauty  of  things.  She  had 
taught  him  that  there  was  beauty  in  the  world. 

"  We'll  never  go  back,"  he  cried. 


THE  MARBECK  INN  231 

"  No.  Not  back,"  she  said.  "  But  we  will  go  to 
Manchester." 

"  No.     No.     We'll  build  a  tabernacle  here." 

"  Here?  No.  We've  been  lawless  here.  We'll 
go  to  Manchester." 

It  rang  in  his  ears  like  the  trump  of  doom.  So 
far  they  had  marched  in  thought  together,  and  he 
imagined  that  in  her  scheme  they  were  to  be  to- 
gether to  the  end.  He  thought  her  purpose  was 
that  they  two  were  to  work  together  to  give  shape 
to  beauty  —  and  no  bad  exercise  in  perception, 
either,  for  Sam  Branstone. 

That  was  her  purpose,  but,  as  she  saw  it,  they 
were  not  to  work  together  in  the  sense  he  meant. 
Her  spirit  was  to  go  on  with  him,  but  she  herself 
would  stand  aside,  denying  herself  the  right  and 
the  joy  of  sharing  his  work  with  him  in  physical 
partnership.  She  would  have  done  her  share  at 
Marbeck :  she  was  a  sign-post  whose  direction  he 
was  to  follow  but  which  he  left  behind,  not  a  guide 
to  go  with  him  on  his  way :  and  she  thought  she  was 
content  with  that. 

She  renounced  and  she  imagined  that  of  the  two 
of  them  it  was  she  who  was  the  realist  and  he  who 
was  romantic.  He  was  romantic  because  he 
wanted  her  with  him  and  she  the  realist  because 
she  remembered  Ada.  She  was  not  jealous  of  Ada 
now;  if  she  could  not  bless  Ada,  neither  did  she 
damn  her.  Ada  had  never  held  him  as  Effie  held 
him  now.  She  thought  it  satisfied  her  to  know 
that  she  held  him,  and  to  let  the  days  slip  past 
uncounted.  Nothing  is  infinite  except  our  human 
capacity  for  self-deception. 

For  the  present,  for  the  Marbeck  heyday,  it  did 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

satisfy  her,  and  she  went  about  the  business  of 
her  tutelage  with  the  unruffled  serenity  of  fulfilled 
purpose,  almost  involuntarily  now,  thinking  little, 
feeling  everything  in  the  passionate  intensity  of 
her  sacramental  love.  It  would  end  and  she  would 
suffer :  meantime  there  were  only  so  many  days  and 
it  was  no  use  impairing  finite  days  with  regrets 
that  they  were  not  infinite. 

Thought  was  for  before  and  afterwards,  not  for 
now  when  she  crusaded  for  the  soul  of  Sammy 
Branstone  with  the  mystic  rapture  of  a  trance,  joy- 
ful like  the  other  sorts  of  true  religion.  She  would 
wake  up,  but  she  would  have  taught  Sam  his  les- 
son; she  would  have  given  him  his  gleam;  dnd  she 
was  selfless  after  that.  .  .  . 

Of  course  she  may  have  deceived  herself.  There 
is  spiritual  love,  but  Effie  wras  flesh  and  blood. 

Sam,  at  any  rate,  was  not  etherealizing  things. 
He  did  not  appreciate  the  happiness  of  renouncing 
happiness.  He  wanted  it  to  last,  to  go  on  with  the 
gay  days  on  the  hills  when  she  put  health  into  his 
body  and  health  into  his  mind,  when  it  was  all  a 
high-spirited  riot  without  an  undertow.  For  hours 
on  end,  they  lived  their  lives  unclouded  by  a 
thought  .  .  .  rude,  rough,  exhilarating  exercise  on 
the  glamorous  fells  like  that  illustrious  day  when 
they  climbed  the  Pike  and  lost  themselves  in  mist 
and  found  themselves  again  just  where  they  wished 
to  be,  on  the  downward  trail  by  Corner  Tarn  to 
Yerkdale :  then  on  the  steamer  down  the  Lake,  and 
the  lonely  moonlight  walk  across  the  Moor  to 
Branley,  where  the  trap  from  the  Inn  met  them 
and  took  them,  comfortably  tired,  to  Marbeck  and 
a  giant's  feast.  And  there  were  other  days,  more 


THE  MARBECK  INN  233 

leisured,  on  their  Lake  or  in  the  woods  when  more 
seemed  to  happen  in  his  soul  and  less  in  his  body ; 
and  their  day  of  Bathes,  in  five  well  separated 
tarns,  with  a  makeweight  bathe  in  the  Mars!  and 
Beck  for  luck.  He  wanted  it  to  last.  He  had  in- 
toxication of  the  hills,  of  her,  of  everything. 

He  had  not  seen,  he  would  not  and  he  could  not 
see  the  possibility  of  her  leaving  him.  He  did  not 
know  that  leaving  him  was  as  fundamental  a  part 
of  her  plan  as  coming  to  him. 

"  We'll  go  back  to  Manchester,"  she  said,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  ordered  back  to  hell. 
"  That's  where  your  business  is,"  she  added,  a  little 
wickedly. 

Business !  Hadn't  she  shown  him  the  ugliness  of 
his  business,  and  the  beauty  of  Marbeck?  Why 
should  they  ever  leave  the  hills?  He  had  all  the 
extremity  of  a  convert. 

Effie  would  say  no  more,  and  now,  as  the  end  of 
their  time  grew  near,  the  magic  seemed  to  him  less 
magical,  because  he  had  to  leave  it,  because  she 
would  not  stay  for  ever  in  that  lonely  place,  but 
wanted  him  to  go  where  other  men  lived,  in  an 
ugly  town,  where  he  had  a  business  she  had  taught 
him  to  despise,  and  responsibilities,  and  Ada. 

He  plunged  to  gloom.  What  was  the  use  of 
knowing  that  there  was  light  if  he  must  go  back  to 
darkness?  Was  it  not  treachery  in  her  to  come 
so  far  with  him,  then  leave  him  to  himself? 

"  Effle !  "  he  pleaded,  and  she  consented  to  make 
things  clear. 

"Don't  you  see,  Sam?  We've  done  what  we 
came  here  to  do.  You've  seen,  you  know,  and  you 
will  not  slide  back.  I  won't  allow  you  to." 


234.  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  You  won't  allow!     Then  you'll  be  there?  " 

"  I  hope  my  spirit  will  be  always  there,"  she 
said.  "Do  you  doubt  that?" 

fi  Spirit? "  he  said.  "  You're  overrating  me. 
You're  asking  more  than  I  can  give.  I  cannot  give 
what  isn't  there." 

"  I've  put  it  there,"  she  said.  "  You  cannot  fail. 
You  can't  forget." 

"  I'd  not  forget,  but  I  should  fail.  It's  we,  my 
dear.  Not  I  alone,  but  you  and  I.  Without  you 
I  am  lost." 

She  made  a  great  concession.  "  Then,  if  you're 
sure " 

"  Quite  sure,"  he  said,  and  she  decided  to  in- 
dulge his  weakness. 

"  Then  don't  dismiss  your  secretary.  Then  I'll 
be  there." 

"  As  secretary?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course."  She  spoke  impatiently.  All 
else  was  at  the  end. 

That  only  made  it  more  impossible  than  ever. 
She  was  to  be  there  —  and  not  to  be  there.  There, 
in  his  office  where  he  would  see  her  every  day, 
where  he  had  only  to  stretch  out  his  hand  to  touch 
her,  and  where  he  was  not  to  touch,  where  he  was 
to  forget  that  he  had  ever  touched.  He  wanted 
her,  all  of  her,  the  touch,  the  glow,  the  life  of  her, 
and  she  offered  —  what?  A  sexless  wraith,  a 
spiritual  guide,  her  presence  in  asceticism. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  No.     I'd  rather  die  than  that." 

"  Oh,  death  is  a  good  arrangement,  Sam,  but 
we'll  be  brave." 

"  There  are  limits  even  to  bravery." 

"  No,"  said  the  realist.     "  There  are  none." 


THE  MARBECK  INN  235 

So  she  sent  him,  though  he  did  not  know  that 
the  suggestion  came  from  her,  to  gather  strength 
in  the  peace  of.the  everlasting  hills.  She  sent  him 
to  Hartle  Pike  to  think,  to  see  that  she  was  right. 
He  would  remember  Ada  there. 

He  did  remember  Ada,  but  it  seemed  to  him, 
when  he  tried  to  sum  up  his  recollections,  that  Ada 
was  not  the  woman  who  counted  in  his  life.  The 
women  who  counted  were  before  Ada  and  after 
Ada.  They  were  Anne  and  Effie. 

In  the  gathering  dusk  on  Hartle  Pike  he  tried  to 
be  cool  about  it  and  to  see  things  in  proportion. 
Effie  had  the  supreme  advantage  of  immediacy. 
It  wasn't  easy,  whilst  he  lived  encircled  by  her 
glamour,  to  see  Ada  at  all. 

But  he  had  been  Ada's  husband  for  ten  years,  a 
long  time,  more  than  a  quarter  of  his  life.  In  all 
those  years  there  must  be  something  which  he  could 
positively  remember  of  her,  some  definite  charac- 
teristic; something,  at  any  rate,  which  was  indi- 
vidual to  her.  He  searched  and  found  nothing. 
She  had  less  individuality  in  his  mind  than  his 
sideboard.  He  supposed  that  she  kept  house,  or 
did  she?  Didn't  he  recall  that  the  cook's  wages 
went  up  one  year,  and  that  the  cook  became  cook- 
housekeeper?  In  that  case,  and  he  felt  certain  of 
it  now,  Ada  did  nothing.  He  was  equally  certain 
that  she  was  nothing.  Since  he  had  grown  ac- 
customed to  her  demands  for  money,  she  was  not 
even  an  irritant.  She  was  a  standing  charge,  like 
the  warehouse  rent. 

Quite  suddenly,  as  he  lingered  over  that  defini- 
tion of  his  wife,  "  a  standing  charge,"  he  saw  that 
it  was  double-edged.  It  cut  at  him,  and  shrewdly. 


236  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Ada,  like  Effie,  was  a  woman,  and  he  knew  from 
Effie  what  a  woman  could  be.  There  must,  at  least, 
have  been  possibilities  in  Ada.  Dear  God,  what 
had  he  done  with  them  if  she  was  nothing  now? 
That  was  the  charge  —  that  he  had  married  her 
and  that  she  was  nothing:  that  he  had  permitted 
her  to  become  nothing.  He  could  summon  no  wit- 
ness for  his  defence,  he  remembered  no  occasion 
when  he  had  fought  for  Ada,  as  Effie  had  fought 

for  him.  And  as  to  sacrifice !  Yet  he  was 

supposed  to  have  loved  Ada. 

He  could  have  howled  for  very  shame.  He  could 
not,  in  fairness,  think  that  Ada  had  given  him  any- 
thing, but  writhed  that  he  had  thought  just  now  of 
Anne  and  Effie  as  the  two  women  who  counted  in 
his  life.  They  were  the  women  who  gave.  Was 
he  to  take  all  from  women  and  render  nothing  to 
a  woman  in  return?  If  he  could  say  of  Ada,  his 
wife  these  last  ten  years,  that  she  did  not  count, 
then  he  was  very  much  to  blame  and  the  path  was 
clear  before  him.  He  saw  to  where  the  gleam  that 
Effie  gave  him  pointed.  To  Ada.  It  annoyed  him 
desperately  that  it  should  point  to  Ada. 

He  began  to  descend  the  hill  in  a  cold  fury.  The 
world  was  hideous,  Marbeck  an  illusion,  Effie  a 
fool.  No:  Effie  was  right.  One  could  not  run 
away  from  facts  and  hide  one's  head  amongst  the 
hills,  and  say  there  were  no  facts.  She  had  not 
brought  him  there  to  obscure  facts,  but  to  reveal 
them. 

It  remained  to  face  them,  to  return  to  Manches- 
ter with  new  knowledge  and  new  courage.  It 
needed  courage  to  turn  his  back  on  Marbeck,  to  go 
away  from  happiness  to  Ada. 


THE  MARBECK  INN  237 

He  stamped  upon  that  thought,  as  on  a  snake. 
It  was  disloyalty  to  Effie  who  had  sacrificed  to  him 
and  shown  him  all  the  beauty  of  her  sacrifice.  He, 
too,  would  sacrifice  and  find  a  beauty  in  it. 

He  found  it  extraordinarily  difficult  to  meet 
Effie,  and  spent  an  unnecessarily  long  time  with 
the  landlord  of  the  Inn.  Then  he  went  in  to  her. 

"  I'm  leaving,"  he  stammered.  "  I  couldn't  stay 
another  night.  By  driving  fifteen  miles  I  can 
catch  the  South  Mail  at  midnight.  I've  arranged 
for  you  to  come  to-morrow." 

He  jerked  each  sentence  out  painfully. 

Effie  met  his  eyes  with  her  serene  gaze.  "  That's 
infinitely  best,"  she  said.  "  I'm  proud  of  you." 

He  had  seen !  It  was  her  victory,  complete  and 
unequivocal,  and  she  was  proud  of  him  and  of  her- 
self. He  had  got  rid  of  mud  and  he  had  seen 
beauty.  Now  he  was  facing  the  facts  as  she  would 
have  him  face  them,  clear-eyed,  without  romance. 
Like  her,  he  was  a  realist,  and  she  was  glad  .  .  . 
glad. 

But  when  he  went  up  to  their  room  to  pack  his 
bag,  Effie  left  the  Inn  quickly  and  walked  hard. 
She  must  put  space  between  them :  space,  that  she 
might  cry  unheard.  It  seemed  to  her  that  if  he 
heard  her  crying  he  would  not  go,  and  she  wanted 
him  to  go.  She  was  a  realist.  She  was  .  .  . 
stifling  her  sobs  amongst  the  heather;  triumphing 
in  victory  on  Marbeck  Kidge. 

She  won,  as  she  had  said  that  she  would  win. 
But  there  were  limits  to  her  bravery. 


THE  theory  that  Satan  is  a  subtle  devil  is  one 
which  will  not  bear  examination.  He  is  a  crude 
fellow,  theatrical,  Mephistophelean.  It  may,  of 
course,  be  only  because  his  experience  of  human 
nature  has  made  a  cynic  of  him,  and  certainly  his 
interferences  do  not  as  a  rule  lack  success  because 
they  want  delicacy.  He  attacked  Sam  with  a 
blatant  effrontery  which  suggested  that  he  thought 
Sam's  a  contemptuously  easy  case. 

Sam  reached  Manchester  very  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  spent  the  rest  of  his  broken  night  in  a 
lugubrious  hotel  near  the  station.  Manchester 
hotels  rarely  make  for  gaiety,  but  it  is  wonderful 
what  even  a  short  night  will  do  in  the  way  of  alter- 
ing a  point  of  view. 

He  expected  to  be  depressed  at  the  very  air  of 
Manchester,  and,  instead,  he  sniffed  at  it  as  Mr. 
Minnifie  had  once  relished  the  odours  of  Greenheys, 
with  an  exile's  greed.  He  knew  that  he  ought  to 
feel  a  loathing  of  the  office,  but  found  that  he 
opened  the  letters  with  more  than  his  usual  zest. 
He  knew  that  it  was  wrong,  all  wrong,  and  checked 
his  itching  fingers. 

There  have  been  prisoners  who,  when  offered 
freedom,  have  pleaded  to  remain  in  the  familiar 
cell. 


SATAN'S  SMILE  239 

Was  it  like  that  with  him,  he  wondered,  as  bad  as 
that,  the  jail-fever  so  ineradically  in  him  that  he 
must  breathe  the  tainted  air  to  live?  But,  was  he 
offered  freedom?  He  had  to  go  to  Ada,  who  was  a 
mill-stone  and  implied  the  other  mill-stones.  Un- 
less she  was  not  a  mill-stone,  unless  he  could  alter 
her.  In  the  meantime,  at  all  events,  she  was  not 
altered,  she  wanted  the  things  which  she  had  always 
wanted ;  and  the  office  was  their  source.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  still  in  prison,  with  the  differ- 
ence that  he  now  knew  that  it  was  prison.  He 
found  little  comfort  in  the  knowledge. 

His  gaze  returned  to  the  pile  of  correspondence. 
There  seemed  nothing  else  for  it  to  do,  and  he  saw 
an  envelope,  addressed  not  to  the  firm,  but  to  him- 
self, which  sent  the  blood  whirling  to  his  head  in 
simple  premonition  of  its  contents.  From  the  post- 
mark (S.W.— Satan's  Work?)  he  saw  that  it  had 
only  come  that  morning  and  had  not  been  waiting 
his  arrival.  He  thought  of  that  as  of  a  portent. 
Suppose  he  had  stayed  another  day  at  Marbeck! 
He  might  have  been  too  late. 

It  was  a  careful  letter,  but  the  facts  were  that, 
owing  to  the  sudden  death  of  Sir  Almeric  Pannifer, 
the  seat  for  the  Sandyford  Division  of  Marlshire 
was  vacated.  Mr.  Morphew,  who  had  reduced  Sir 
Almeric's  majority  in  that  agricultural  constitu- 
ency to  three  hundred  was,  for  private  reasons, 
unable  to  stand  again  ( "  I  know  these  private 
reasons,"  thought  Sam.  "  Morphew  considers  he 
has  earned  a  walkover  next  time"),  but  Head- 
quarters were  of  opinion  that  a  resolute  candidate 
of  strong  personality,  etc.  .  .  . 

In  short,  he  was  offered  the  opportunity  to  be  the 


240  THE  MARBECK  INN 

figurehead  in  a  demonstration  for  the  Liberal 
Party.  It  was  no  more  than  that.  Morphew  had 
doubtless  nursed  the  constituency  like  a  mother, 
and  if  at  the  landslide  of  the  last  election  he  had 
done  no  better  than  to  come  within  three  hundred 
of  his  opponents'  votes,  the  chances  of  a  stranger's 
capturing  the  seat  were  negative.  But  it  was  the 
stepping-stone,  the  liaison  between  obscurity  and 
the  House  of  Commons.  It  was  what  he  had  aimed 
at. 

He  tried  to  believe  that  the  letter  did  not  ex- 
hilarate him  as  it  would  have  done  a  fortnight 
earlier,  and  Satan,  the  connoisseur  of  good  resolu- 
tions, smiled  his  age-long  smile. 

He  looked  across  at  Effie's  chair.  "  My  spirit 
will  be  always  with  you,"  she  had  said ;  he  wondered 
if  it  were  there  now,  and  tried  to  see  her.  Surely 
now,  if  ever,  was  her  time;  now  when  he  had  so 
lately  left  her,  when  her  scent  was  in  his  nostrils 
and  her  voice  in  his  ears.  Her  voice  was  in  his 
ears.  He  heard  it  clearly.  She  spoke  one  word, 
"  Renounce." 

"  Yes,  but,  my  dear,"  he  argued,  "  I  have  re- 
nounced. I've  renounced  you.  I've  come  back 
here  and  I'm  going  to  Ada,  to  plumb  the  depths 
of  her,  to  find  the  good  in  her,  and  drag  it  to  the 
top.  I'm  going  to  dive  for  pearls,"  he  grew  almost 
picturesque  as  he  cited  his  intentions  towards  Ada 
in  his  defence,  "  and  I  shall  grow  short  of  breath. 
I'm  not  doubting  that  the  pearls  are  there,  because 
Ada's  a  woman,  and  so  are  you,  but  I  know  that 
they  lie  deep  and  I  want  breath  for  such  a  dive  as 
that.  I've  renounced  you,  and  I'm  going  to  make 
a  woman  of  her;  don't  I  deserve  some  recompense 


SATAN'S  SMILE 

to  make  amends?  It's  here  beneath  my  hand,  and 
I  have  only  to  say  '  Yes.'  Effle,"  he  pleaded,  "  if 
you  knew  what  this  meant  to  me,  you  wouldn't 
frown.  It's  not  backsliding."  He  denied  that  it 
was  backsliding,  well  knowing  that  it  was.  "  It's 
politics,  I  know,  and  you  don't  like  politics.  You 
told  me  women  knew  about  politics  now.  Oh,  but 
you  don't  know,  you  don't.  Smile  at  me,  Effie, 
smile  as  I  have  seen  women  smile  when  men  talked 
of  golf.  I  know  we  men  are  babies,  and  so  do  you. 
Give  me  my  game.  It's  nothing  but  a  hobby,  like 
golf,  but  this  is  mine,  and  I  want  it  so  much.  Ada 
is  my  work  and  this  is  my  play,  and  just  as  neces- 
sary. It  will  not  be  a  hindrance  to  what  I  have 
to  do  for  Ada,  it  will  be  a  help.  Effie,  tell  me  that 
I  may  have  my  help." 

He  tried  to  blarney  a  consenting  smile  out  of  the 
figure  of  Effie  he  imagined  sitting  in  her  chair.  He 
had  no  difficulty  in  imagining  her  there;  he  saw 
her,  too  easily,  too  really  to  imagine  a  false  Effie. 
He  could  not  imagine,  try  as  he  would,  that  he  had 
won  consent  from  her.  He  was  too  near  the  real 
Effie  for  that.  And  Effie  said  "  Kenounce." 

Then  his  cashier  came  into  the  office  and  routine 
swallowed  him  for  the  day.  A  score  of  little  points 
had  arisen  in  his  absence  and  must  be  discussed  and 
settled.  The  thought  occurred  to  him  that  if  he 
telegraphed  to  London  in  the  morning,  Head- 
quarters would  hear  from  him  as  soon  as  if  he  wrote 
to-day.  They  might  expect  a  wire  to-day;  well, 
they  would  not  get  it.  He  crammed  the  letter  into 
his  pocket  and  decided  that  he  would  sleep  upon  it 
before  he  sent  them  his  reply. 

And  if  Satan  still  smiled  it  was  wistfully,  as  if 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

he  regretted  his  lost  subtlety;  but  there  was  still 
Ada,  the  married  woman. 

If  Ada  was  nothing  else,  she  was  a  married 
woman;  in  a  world  where  many  fail,  she  had  suc- 
ceeded ;  she  had  got  married,  and,  like  other  people 
who  have  reached  their  earthly  paradise,  she  did 
not  know  what  to  do  when  she  got  there,  and  did 
nothing.  She  stopped  growing  when  she  married. 

The  emptiness  of  her  life  was  a  thing  to  marvel 
at.  She  slept  and  ate  and  shopped.  She  was 
spared  the  ordinary  duties  of  running  a  house,  and 
the  trials  of  servants,  because  the  cook,  an  elderly, 
reliable  woman,  took  (it  seemed)  a  fancy  to  Sam 
and  became  a  fixture  first  and  a  housekeeper  second, 
taking  from  Ada's  shoulders  the  burden  of  engaging 
her  underling.  She  had  two  "  At  homes  "  a  week, 
and  went  to  other  people's  "  At  homes."  On  Sun- 
day, she  went  to  church,  where  one  can  display  new 
clothes  to  a  larger  audience  than  at  the  largest 
private  "  at  home."  She  killed  the  evenings  some- 
how, in  company  with  a  friend,  or  with  the  fashion 
papers. 

Evenings  interested  her  little ;  they  were  the  time 
when  Sam  was  often,  but  not  too  often,  at  home. 
He  was  not,  strictly,  a  nuisance,  because  he  never 
asked  her,  after  a  first  experiment,  to  entertain  a 
business  acquaintance,  and  did  that  at  hotels.  Nor 
did  he  ask  her  to  entertain  him.  Usually,  he  read 
a  manuscript,  or  worked  out  costs  or  did  something 
which  made  no  demand  on  Ada,  except  that  she  be 
reasonably  quiet.  She  was  very  quiet  with  Sam, 
for  the  reason  that  she  had  nothing  to  say. 

She  did  not  go  out  much  in  the  evenings  and  told 


SATAN'S  SMILE  243 

her  friends  that  this  was  because  she  liked  to  be  at 
home  with  her  husband.  They  were  supposed  to 
deduce  an  idyll  of  conjugal  bliss  where  proximity 
was  perfect  happiness.  The  real  reasons  were, 
first,  pure  laziness  and,  second,  her  shoulders. 
Other  married  women  might  expose  their  shoulders 
in  low-cut  dresses,  but  not  Ada.  It  wasn't  modest. 
Her  shoulders  were  ugly. 

She  never  went  to  see  Peter,  who  had  given  her 
offence  by  suggesting  the  blessedness  of  work.  He 
had  dared  to  lecture  her,  a  married  woman,  and  she 
let  fly  at  him  in  such  fashion  that  he  never  tried 
again.  He  deplored  his  weakness,  but  he  gave  her 
up.  The  cobbler's  child  is  the  worst  shod,  and 
something  analogous  often  happens  with  the 
daughters  of  the  clergy:  Ada  was,  perhaps,  the 
worst  of  Peter's  flock.  He  knew  and,  knowing  the 
hopes  he  had  had  of  this  marriage,  suffered  at  its 
failure,  but  silently,  confessing  impotence.  There 
were  always  books  in  which  he  could  forget,  and 
the  peace  which  had  come  to  his  house  since  Ada 
left  it.  It  is  not  easy  to  be  saintly  all  the  time, 
and  her  outrageous  attack  had  been,  humanly 
speaking,  unpardonable. 

"  There  must  be  something  in  her,"  he  told  him- 
self, as  he  left  the  office,  "  and  I've  to  find  it." 

*The  day  had,  naturally,  after  an  absence,  been 
unusually  busy,  and  had  given  him  no  time  to  think. 
He  was  bursting  with  intention,  but  it  was  vague, 
unformed,  though  urgent  and  doubly  urgent  be- 
cause of  the  letter  in  his  pocket.  If  he  could  make 
a  woman  of  Ada,  if  that  evening  he  could  make  a 
fair  start,  perhaps  he  could  conjure  up  the  figure  of 


244  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Effie,  his  ghostly  counsellor,  with  a  smile  on  her 
face  consenting  to  his  standing  for  the  seat. 

"  Oh,"  Ada  greeted  him,  "  I  thought  you  were  not 
coming  back  till  Saturday." 

"  I  wasn't,"  he  said.  "  Something  changed  my 
plan  a  little.  I  wanted  to  get  home." 

She  looked  at  him  resentfully.  There  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  change  his  plan  and  come 
home  two  days  before  she  expected  him,  but  she 
resented  the  unexpected.  And  there  was  something 
about  him  which  appeared  strange. 

"  Tell  me  you  are  glad  to  see  me,"  he  said. 

"Well,  it  wasn't  to  be  till  Saturday,"  she  re- 
peated stupidly. 

"  Are  you  thinking  of  dinner? "  he  asked. 
"  Kate  will  manage  something." 

She  was  not  thinking  of  dinner,  and  no  doubt 
Kate  would  manage  something.  It  was  Kate's 
business. 

"  You're  wearing  funny  clothes,"  she  said. 

"  Country  clothes,"  he  explained.  "  You  see, 
I've  been  in  the  country." 

"  Oh."     She  was  not  curious. 

"  Yes.  In  the  country.  It  was  rather  beautiful, 
Ada." 

"  I  nearly  went  with  Mrs.  Grandage  to  the 
'  Metropole,'  at  Blackpool,  but  I  don't  like  dressing 
for  dinner." 

"  Blackpool's  not  beautiful,"  he  said.  "  Ada,  I 
want  to  talk  to  you,  and  I  hardly  know  how  to 
begin,  except  that  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
I'm  in  earnest.  It's  a  serious  matter." 

"Money?"  said  Ada,  sitting  up  sharply  in  her 
chair. 


SATAN'S  SMILE  245 

"  Not  money.  We've  both  been  wrong  about 
money,  I  think.  We've  both  taken  it  too  seriously." 

"  If  you're  going  to  tell  me  that  something  has 
gone  wrong  with  your  money,  it's  very  serious 
indeed." 

"It  hasn't.  No.  This  is  a  larger  thing  than 
money.  I  want,  if  I  can,  to  alter  things  between 
us,  Ada.  How  can  I  put  it?  There's  your 
father " 

"  I  never  want  to  hear  his  name  again,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "  He  insulted  me." 

"  You  go  to  church,  you  know ;  you  listen  to  him 
there." 

"  People  would  talk  if  I  didn't  go.  I  needn't 
listen  to  him  when  I  am  in  church." 

"  He's  a  good  old  man.  I'm  sorry  we  have  drifted 
from  him.  But  I'll  not  press  that  now.  If  the  rest 
comes  right,  that  will  come  right  with  it.  It  might 
even  come  so  right  as  to  include  my  mother." 

"  My  word !  "  she  said,  "  you  are  digging  up  the 
past.  I  don't  see  how  you  could  call  things  right 
when  they  include  me  with  a  charwoman." 

"  Ada !  "  he  protested. 

"  It's  what  she  is." 

"  By  her  own  choice.  But  please  forget  that, 
Ada.  Yes,  it's  true  that  I  am  digging  in  the  past. 
I  want  to  go  back  to  see  where  we  went  wrong." 

"  Went  wrong?     When  who  went  wrong?  " 

"  Why,  you  and  I." 

"  I  didn't  know  we  had  gone  wrong."  She  looked 
at  him.  "  You  look  well,"  she  decided,  "  but  you 
can't  be." 

"  I  am  better  than  I've  ever  been,"  he  said,  "  and 
stronger,  and  if  need  be  I  shall  use  my  strength, 


246  THE  MARBECK  INN 

but  I  hope  the  need  won't  come  for  that.  Ada, 
can  you  tell  me  this?  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is 
you  want?  " 

"  You're  sure  it's  all  right  about  your  money?  " 
she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Yes,  of  course  it's  right,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"  Then  I  don't  know  that  I  want  anything.  I 
could  do  with  more,  naturally.  Who  couldn't?  " 

"  More  money.  Not  more  beauty?  Not  a  new 
purpose?  Not  something  to  live  for?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Sam. 
You're  very  strange  to-night." 

"  I  hardly  know  myself,"  he  confessed.  "  I  know 
it's  all  confused,  and  I  ought  to  have  got  things  out 
of  the  tangle  before  I  spoke  to  you.  But  I  thought 
you  might  have  seen  and  so  be  able  to  help  me  out. 
No :  that's  all  right,  Ada,"  he  went  on  as  she  glared 
at  him  indignantly.  "  I'm  blaming  no  one  but  my- 
self. It's  my  responsibility.  You  don't  see  it  yet, 
and  I  must  make  you  see." 

"  If  a  thing's  there,  I  can  see  it." 

"  Oh,  it's  there,"  he  said.  "  We  can  both  see  that. 
It's  only  the  cure  for  it  that  isn't  plain." 

"  What's  there?  " 

"  The  failure  of  our  marriage,  if  I  must  put  it 
into  words." 

"  Failure !  But  we  are  married.  What  do  you 
mean?  "  What  Ada  meant  was  that  the  ring  was 
on  her  finger  and  the  marriage  certificate  in  her 
desk.  Failure  in  marriage,  if  it  meant  anything  to 
her,  meant  failure  to  get  married,  a  broken  engage- 
ment, and  since  their  engagement  had  not  been 
broken,  since  they  had  been  formally  and  legally 
married  in  church,  there  could  be  no  failure. 


SATAN'S  SMILE  247 

"  We  didn't  exult  in  marriage,"  he  tried. 

"  Exult?  I'm  sure  I  was  the  proudest  woman  in 
the  parish  the  day  I  married  you."  It  was  true. 

"  But  afterwards,  afterwards !  " 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  are  you  throwing  it  in  my 
teeth  that  I  didn't  have  a  baby?  Was  that  my 
fault?" 

"No,  no.  But  it  might  have  saved  us,  all  the 
same,  and  when  the  baby  did  not  come  we  made  no 
effort  to  save  ourselves.  There's  a  light  somewhere 
in  every  one  of  us  and  you  and  I  have  quenched  our 
lights.  They  may  be  small,  they  may  not  be  a 
great  light  like  your  father's,  or  ...  or  the  light 
which  I  have  seen  in  the  country,  they  may  be 
nothing  but  a  feeble  glow,  and  we  can  only  give 
our  best.  You  and  I  have  not  given  ours.  We 
have  not  tried  to  find  our  light,  but  now  —  now 
that  we  have  discovered  what  has  been  wrong  with 
us  all  this  while  —  we  can  try,  and  together.  We 
can  all  of  us  give  something  to  the  world,  not  chil- 
dren in  our  case,  but  the  something  else  which  we 
were  made  to  give.  We  don't  know  what  it  is  that 
you  can  give  and  I  can  give,  and  we've  left  it  late 
to  begin  to  find  out,  but  it  is  not  too  late,  is  it, 
Ada?  Ada,"  he  pleaded,  "  it  is  not  too  late?  " 

She  looked  at  the  clock.  "  If  you  want  to  wash 
your  hands  before  dinner  you'd  better  do  it  now," 
she  said,  "  or  you  will  be  late."  She  rose,  but  be- 
fore she  left  him,  she  had  a  moment  of  illumination. 
She  thought  she  saw  what  he  was  driving  at,  that 
he  must  have  seen  some  happy  family  while  he 
was  away  and  came  back  with  the  cry  of  the  child- 
less man  on  his  lips.  "  I  suppose  this  means," 
she  said,  "  that  you  want  me  to  adopt  a  child. 


248  THE  MARBECK  INN 

That's  what  you  mean  by  giving.  Well,  I  won't  do 
it,  Sam.  I've  something  else  to  do  with  my  time 
than  to  look  after  another  woman's  brat." 

"  What  have  you  to  do?  "  he  asked.  "  What  is  it 
that  you  want  to  do?  " 

"  To  eat  my  dinner,"  she  said.  She  had  a  healthy 
appetite.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  wanted 
nothing  else. 

He  stood  by  the  door  when  she  had  gone,  and  his 
hand  strayed  to  his  pocket  as  though  it  sought  a 
talisman.  He  felt  the  letter  crinkle,  then  tore  his 
hand  away.  Ada  was  work  for  a  man.  There 
wasn't  room  for  Ada  and  for  politics.  "  Deeply  re- 
gret private  reasons  compel  total  withdrawal  from 
politics."  Yes,  that  was  the  wording  of  the  tele- 
gram which  he  would  send:  it  was  best  to  be 
thorough,  and,  plainly,  the  man  who  had  Ada  in 
hand  had  no  time  to  spare  on  a  hobby  or  an  ambi- 
tion or  whatever  it  was  that  politics  represented 
for  him.  He  had  other  work  to  do  in  the  world. 

He  stamped  upon  the  ruins  of  a  hope  which  came 
to  birth  ten  years  ago,  and  which  he  had  carried 
with  him  in  his  heart  of  hearts  and,  as  the  letter 
in  his  pocket  proved,  not  a  fool's  hope  either.  Yes, 
he  had  loved  that  hope  which  was  born  on  his 
honeymoon. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  in  all  he  had  said,  or  tried 
to  say,  to  Ada  he  had  not  mentioned  love.  It  had 
not  seemed  the  right  word  for  use  in  a  conversation 
with  Ada,  but,  he  reflected  savagely,  he  had  loved 
his  hope  of  politics  from  the  time  of  the  honeymoon 
onwards:  and  from  that  time  he  had  not  loved 
Ada. 

Was  that  true?    Had  he  neglected  the  substance 


SATAN'S  SMILE  249 

for  the  shadow,  used  love  upon  his  hope  and  not 
upon  his  wife?  If  he  had  his  talk  with  her  again, 
could  he  honestly  begin  it  in  another  way?  Could 
he  begin  with  love?  He  knew  that  he  could  not, 
and  squared  his  shoulders  to  the  fact.  It  was  a 
case,  then,  for  the  more  courage.  What  was  it  Effie 
had  said?  "  There  are  no  limits  to  bravery."  He 
wondered,  but  he  meant  to  see. 

And  Satan's  smile  had  faded.  There  is  more  joy 
amongst  the  devils  over  one  sinner  who  back- 
slideth.  .  .  .  But  not  this  time,  Mephistopheles ! 
Effie  was  winning  still. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER 

EFFIE  and  Sam  knew  that  they  ought  to  be  happy 
in  the  weeks  which  followed,  because  to  be  good  is, 
theoretically,  to  be  happy :  but  they  were  not  happy. 
Sam,  indeed,  was  less  unhappy  than  Effie  because 
he  had  sunk  into  one  of  those  leaden,  numbed  moods 
of  his  which  he  knew  of  old  as  the  stage  preliminary 
to  his  brightest  inspirations,  and  he  could  wait 
resignedly  if  not  happily  for  the  inspiration  to 
emerge. 

Decidedly,  he  thought,  he  needed  inspiration, 
He  had  to  discover  Ada,  to  search  for  her  reality, 
and,  having  found  it,  to  drag  it  out  and  set  it  in  the 
forefront  of  her  being.  A  big  task :  one  whose  suc- 
cess he  must  not  jeopardize  again  by  rushing  at  her 
prematurely  without  distinct  plan.  He  had  only 
made  her  suspicious  of  him  by  his  first  impulsive 
attempt,  and  time  must  undo  the  mischief  before  a 
return  to  the  attack  was  either  discreet  or  oppor- 
tune. 

He  waited,  but  he  did  not  savour  life.  When  he 
had  quickened  Ada,  life  would,  no  doubt,  be  worth 
the  living,  but,  meantime,  it  dragged.  He  told  him- 
self that  he  was  too  young  yet  at  this  new  business 
of  giving  to  feel  the  joy  of  it.  Certainly,  he  was 
not  joyful. 

But  he  was  resolute.     There  was  a  grim  tighten- 


THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER  251 

ing  of  the  lips  and  a  dogged  look  in  the  eyes  which 
proclaimed  that  this  was  Samuel,  the  son  of  Anne. 
In  this  mood  he  could  eat  Dead  Sea  apples  and  feel 
they  were  a  proper  diet.  Politics  had  gone,  and 
with  them  any  interest  in  the  Council.  And  he 
did  not  know  what  to  do  about  his  business.  He 
wanted  to  ask  Effie,  and  Effie  was  not  there  to  be 
asked. 

It  was  not  that  she  did  not  want  to  be  there  or 
that  she  did  not  suffer  for  her  absence.  Effie  was 
not  numb,  and  she  suffered  keenly,  but  she  thought 
her  absence  strengthened  Sam.  When  he  came 
down  from  Hartle  Pike  with  his  resolution  formed 
she  took  it  that  her  scheme,  as  she  had  planned  it, 
was  complete  and  that  she  could  forget  her  weak 
concession  to  return  to  the  office.  She  was  to  be 
there  in  spirit,  and  spirit  is  strong  though  flesh  is 
weak.  Effie  at  the  office  in  the  flesh  would  have 
wanted  to  hug  Sam  and  to  kiss  him,  things  which  it 
is  unbefitting  to  do  in  well-conducted  offices.  And, 
of  course,  she  suffered.  She  had  always  known 
that  she  would  suffer,  but  not  that  it  would  be  as 
bad  as  this. 

The  office  was  a  temptation  every  day:  to  go 
there  was  to  be  with  him,  it  was  to  find  alleviation 
for  her  fever,  it  was  to  be  at  peace :  but  it  was  also 
to  fling  away  hard-won  success,  and  she  resisted. 
That  resistance  engrossed  her.  It  was  all  that  she 
was  capable  of  doing ;  it  demanded  all  her  strength. 

The  obvious,  the  practical  thing,  if  she  was  not  to 
go  to  Sam's  office,  was  to  go  to  someone  else's,  to 
work,  both  as  an  antidote  and  as  a  means  of  liveli- 
hood, and  she  could  not  rouse  herself  to  do  it.  She 
pawned  some  of  the  jewellery  which  remained  to 


252  THE  MARBECK  INN 

her,  memorials  of  her  father's  lavish  past,  sent  the 
weekly  dole  to  her  mother  and  lived  upon  the  rest. 
She  had  sunk  to  this,  Effie  the  crusader,  Effie  the 
advocate  of  courage!  With  Melisande,  she  told 
herself  she  was  not  happy.  She  was  not  happy, 
she  was  not  well,  and  she  wanted,  wanted  Sam. 
She  stayed  at  home  lest  she  should  go  to  him  and 
ruin  all  that  she  had  done.  It  could  not  last  and 
she  knew  it  could  not  last,  but  neither  did  she  see 
the  end  of  it. 

Then  began  the  game  of  consequences :  the  moves 
of  two  pieces,  one  a  pawn,  the  other  the  knight 
called  Dubby  Stewart. 

It  is  a  frumpish  world,  a  world  where  the 
Frumps,  of  one  or  other  sex  or  of  neither  sex,  in 
one  or  other  of  their  manifestations,  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  the  ordering  of  things.  That  is 
why  it  is  politic,  for  one's  ease,  never  to  ignore  the 
Frumps  and  never,  never  to  challenge  them  by  an 
act  of  gallant  defiance  such  as  shying  an  imitation 
wedding  ring  into  the  waters  of  Blea  Tarn. 

Effie  held,  of  course,  that  since  she  was  in  any 
case  defying  the  Frumps  it  was  honest  to  defy  them 
in  form  as  well  as  in  substance,  but  it  is  only  certain 
kinds  of  honesty  which  are  the  best  policy. 

The  Frump  who  sat  behind  Effie  at  meals  at  the 
Inn  (her  name  was  Miss  Entwistle)  had  doubted 
the  genuineness  of  that  ring,  and  when  it  disap- 
peared her  doubts  went  with  it.  The  hussy,  she 
saw,  had  realized  that  her  ring  deceived  nobody,  and 
was  brazening  it  out  in  the  shameless  way  of 
hussies. 

Women  are  wicked,  but  men  are  only  weak;  so 
that,  though  Miss  Entwistle  faced  Sam  at  dinner 


THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER  253 

from  the  next  table,  it  was  some  days  before  she 
could  spare  her  attention  from  the  back  of  the 
greater  sinner  and  transfer  it  to  the  face  of  the 
lesser.  She  could  stare  to  her  heart's  content;  it 
did  not  matter  to  Sam,  who  had  only  eyes  for  Effie : 
and  the  stare  of  Miss  Entwistle  was  very  persistent 
indeed.  It  was  rude,  but  it  was  also  pensive.  It 
seemed  to  be  looking  for  something  it  could  not 
find. 

She  could  not  place  him  and  was  annoyed  because 
she  felt  certain  she  had  seen  him  before.  She  got 
up  early  more  than  once  to  read  the  names  on  the 
morning's  letters,  but  did  not  find  one  which  she 
could  associate  with  Sam,  and  came  home  to  Man- 
chester a  disappointed  woman.  Her  failure  to 
identify  him  spoiled  her  holiday. 

But  all  things  come  to  her  who  waits,  especially, 
as  the  world  is  made,  to  Frumps,  and  Miss  En 
twistle  came  by  the  knowledge  she   craved   one 
afternoon  when  her  friend  Mrs.  Grandage  took  her 
to  Ada  Branstone's  "  At  Home." 

The  two  photographs  of  Sam  in  Ada's  drawing- 
room  were  intended  to  sustain  her  reputation  for 
perfect  domesticity.  She  couldn't  live  without 
him;  she  drew  her  very  breath  from  him  when  he 
was  there,  and  from  his  photographs  when  he  was 
not.  And  since  one  was  full-face  and  the  other 
profile,  they  supplied  Miss  Entwistle  with  reliable 
identification  of  the  sinner  of  Marbeck. 

It  was  heavenly.  Hers  was  the  power  and  the 
glory  of  initiating  a  scandal,  of  exploding  a  bomb 
—  which  would  certainly  disturb  the  peace  of  quite 
a  number  of  people,  of  figuring  in  a  maelstrom  of 
backbiting  tea-parties  as  the  one  authentic  eye- 


THE  MARBECK  INN 

witness.  It  was  irresistible,  besides  plain  duty  to 
her  injured  hostess. 

The  drop  of  gall  in  her  brimming  honey-pot  was 
that  she  did  not  know  Ada  well  enough  to  tell  her 
the  secret  by  herself,  but  must  share  the  excitement 
of  that  first  surprise  with  Mrs.  Grandage.  She 
whispered  with  her  friend  for  some  close-packed, 
hectic  moments,  and  the  two  ladies  stubbornly  out- 
stayed the  rest  of  the  callers. 

They  told  Ada  with  a  wonderful  tenderness, 
watching  her  the  while  as  cats  watch  mice,  and  Ada 
did  not  disappoint  them.  She  cast  no  doubt  on 
Miss  Entwistle's  story ;  she  did  not  tell  her  that  she 
knew  Sam  was  in  London  at  the  time  because  she 
had  had  letters  from  him.  Though  she  had  nothing 
in  the  world  but  her  marriage,  she  made  no  effort 
to  protect  its  reputation.  She  exhibited  herself  to 
them  in  all  the  fury  of  her  jealous  rage,  so  that 
naturally,  seeing  her  instant  belief  in  what  they 
told  her,  the  ladies  formed  their  own  conclusion. 

"  It  is  not  the  first  time/'  is  what  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Grandage  said,  and  the  eyes  of  the  spinster 
looked  back  at  her  sepulchrally  and  said,  "  It  never 
is." 

Ada  was  married.  She  had  the  title  of  wife,  and 
unfaithfulness  on  her  part  was  as  far  removed  from 
her  imagination  as  from  her  opportunity.  She  was 
married  to  Sam ;  she  was  the  woman  in  possession, 
with  the  title-deeds  in  her  desk  and  the  seal  upon 
her  finger,  and  this  was  flagrant  outrage.  It  struck 
at  the  roots  of  her  complacency,  and  complacency 
was  life.  Yet  she  hadn't  the  wits  to  confound  these 
iconoclasts  with  one  little  uninventive  lie.  It 
needed  only  that  to  abash  Miss  Entwistle  —  men's 


THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER  £55 

faces  are  often  alike,  she  knew  perfectly  well  that 
he  was  in  London :  anything  would  have  done,  any- 
thing would  have  been  better  than  this  abject,  im- 
mediate betrayal  of  her  citadel.  She  struck  her  flag 
without  firing  a  shot,  and  lapsed  into  a  slough  of 
inarticulate  anger. 

"What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?"  she 
wailed  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  speak  coherently. 

"  That,"  said  Miss  Entwistle,  "  that,  you  poor 
dear,  is  your  business." 

She  had  announced  the  glad  tidings,  she  had 
found  a  titillating  pleasure  in  watching  Ada's  re- 
ception of  them  and  now  she  was  eager  to  be  off,  to 
spread  the  news,  to  be  the  first  that  ever  burst  into 
her  friends'  drawing-rooms  with  word  of  a  glorious 
scandal.  She  pleaded  another  call  and  escaped  to 
her  orgy. 

"  I'll  make  him  pay  for  this,"  said  Ada  viciously. 

"  My  dear,"  advised  Mrs.  Grandage,  who  had 
a  husband  of  her  own,  "  I  hope  you  will  be  tact- 
ful." 

"  Tactful !  "  blazed  Ada.  "  Tactful,  when  —  oh ! 
oh !  "  She  screamed  her  sense  of  Sam's  enormity. 

"  Yes,  but  you  know,  men  will  be  men." 

"  It  isn't  men.  It's  Sam.  After  all  I've  done 
for  him !  Oh !  "  and  this  was  a  different  "  oh  " 
from  the  others.  It  made  Mrs.  Grandage  look  up 
sharply.  "  The  beast !  The  beast !  This  explains 
it  all.  Ethel,  that  man  came  home  to  me  and  asked 
me  to  adopt  his  child.  He  had  the  face.  Of  course 
I  didn't  know  it  was  his  own  he  was  speaking  of, 
but  I  see  it  now.  Ethel,  what  shall  I  do?  " 

They  seemed  to  Mrs.  Grandage  to  be  drifting  into 
deeper  waters  than  she  had  skill  to  swim  in.  "  I 


256  THE  MARBECK  INN 

should  take  advice,"  she  said,  meaning  nothing  ex- 
cept that  neither  by  advising  nor  anything  else  was 
she  going  to  be  entangled  in  this  affair. 

"A  solicitor's?"  asked  Ada,  catching  at  the 
phrase.  "  Yes.  Naturally.  Sam  shall  be  made  to 
pay  to  the  uttermost  farthing."  Her  idea  of  legal 
obligations  were,  perhaps,  not  vaguer  than  other 
people's." 

"Not  a  solicitor's,"  said  Mrs.  Grandage  in  de- 
spair. "At  least,  my  dear,  not  yet.  Your 
father's." 

"  Yes.  My  father  made  me  marry  Sam.  He 
brought  Sam  home  and  threw  him  at  me.  I  will 
go  to  my  father's.  Of  course,  in  any  case,  I  can't 
stay  here." 

Mrs.  Grandage  made  a  last  rally  for  wordly- 
wisdom.  "  Couldn't  you  bring  yourself  to  see  your 
husband  first?  "  she  asked. 

"  See  him !  "  said  Ada  heroically.  "  I  will  never 
see  him  again  as  long  as  I  live." 

The  visitor  buttoned  her  glove.  After  all,  if  Ada 
chose  to  make  a  fool  of  herself  it  was  no  business 
of  hers,  and  she  had  tried  her  best,  if  a  resolutely 
non-committal  attempt  can  be  a  best.  She  kissed 
Ada  with  real  sympathy. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I'd  give  a  great  deal  to 
undo  this."  And  by  "  this  "  she  did  not  mean  the 
peccadillo  of  Sam  Branstone,  but  the  pruriency  of 
Miss  Entwistle.  She  was  an  experienced  woman, 
and  angry  with  herself  for  having  listened  to  the 
temptress  and  for  aiding  and  abetting  her. 

When  Mrs.  Grandage  referred  in  after  years  to 
"  that  woman,"  it  was  understood  that  she  was 
thinking  of  Miss  Entwistle. 


THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER  257 

Ada  saw  her  to  the  door,  and  went  straight  to  the 
kitchen. 

"  Kate,"  she  said  to  her  cook,  "  Mr.  Branstone 
has  disgraced  himself.  He's  been  unfaithful.  I 
am  going  to  my  father's.  Please  tell  him  that  I 
know  everything  and  that  I  shall  not  return."  She 
had  no  reticence. 

"  Very  well,  mum,"  said  the  capable  cook. 

The  result  was  that  wrhen  Sam  went  into  the 
drawing-room  that  night,  he  found  Anne  Branstone 
sitting  there,  darning  his  socks,  and  perhaps  it  was 
because  she  was  happy  that  she  did  not  look  a  day 
older  than  when  he  saw  her  last ;  perhaps  charring 
suited  her;  or  perhaps  living  for  an  idea  had  kept 
her  young.  The  idea  was  that,  some  day,  Sam 
would  need  her. 

It  wasn't  a  miracle:  there  was  nothing  more 
wonderful  about  it  than  the  fact  that  Anne  was  a 
very  good  friend  of  the  cook,  Kate  Earwalker:  but 
Sam  stood  gaping  helplessly.  In  his  own  house, 
at  his  age,  and  after  all  these  years  he  stood  before 
his  mother,  the  intruder,  like  a  schoolboy  who 
knows  himself  at  fault.  She  lacked  nothing  of  the 
old  ascendancy. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  you're  nobbut  happy  when 
you've  got  folks  talking  of  you.  But  you  don't 
look  thriving  on  it,  neither." 

"  Mother,"  he  gasped,  "  what's  this?  " 

"  It's  you  that  will  tell  me  that,"  said  Anne. 

"Where's  Ada?" 

"  Gone  to  her  father's,  and  none  coming  back,  she 
says.  Says  you're  unfaithful  and  told  Kate  she 
knows  everything.  What  is  it,  Sam?  What's 
everything?  " 


258  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  Who  brought  you  here?  " 

"  Kate  did,"  said  Anne  calmly.  "  Why,  Sam,  did 
you  think  I've  lived  with  nothing  better  than  what 
George  Chappie  and  the  papers  told  me  of  you? 
I'd  a  fancy  for  the  truth,  and  it's  not  a  thing  to  get 
from  men.  Kate's  been  a  spy,  like." 

"  Has  she !  "  he  cried. 

"  She  has,  and  you'll  bear  no  grudge  for  that. 
You'd  have  lived  in  a  pig-sty  and  fed  like  a  pig 
if  I'd  none  sent  Kate  to  do  for  you,  but  I've 
come  myself  this  time.  It  looks  summat  beyond 
Kate." 

"  But  what's  happened?    What  is  it?  " 

"  You  know  better  than  me  what  it  is.  You've 
got  folks  talking  of  you  and  they've  talked  to 
Ada.  Unfaithful,  she  told  Kate,  and  she's  gone 
home  to  Peter's." 

"  She  must  come  back,"  said  Sam. 

"  And  why?  "  asked  Anne.  "  Because  folk  talk? 
To  stop  their  mouths?  " 

"  No.  Because  I  want  her  here.  They're  talk- 
ing, are  they?  Well,  they  can." 

Anne  looked  at  him.  "You  don't  care  if  they 
do?" 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  And  you  a  politician?  " 

"Oh,  politics!"  he  said.  "That's  gone."  It 
had,  and,  as  he  saw  thankfully,  at  the  right  time. 
He  tried  to  imagine  how  differently  this  would  have 
affected  him  if  it  had  come  in  the  midst  of  the 
Sandyford  election.  Electors  postulate  respect- 
ability in  a  candidate.  But  that  had  gone,  and 
gossip  did  not  matter  now.  The  real  things  mat- 
tered. Ada  mattered. 


THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER  259 

"  You've  had  a  move  on,  then,"  she  said,  and 
neither  her  look  nor  tone  suggested  that  she  found 
the  move  displeasing. 

"  I  daresay,"  he  said  carelessly.  "  But  Ada  must 
come  back.  I've  got  to  get  her  back." 

"  Happen  she'll  come  and  happen  she  won't,  and 
I'd  have  a  better  chance  of  knowing  which  if  you'd 
told  me  what's  upset  her." 

"What  did  she  say?"  he  asked.  "Unfaithful? 
Yes,  it's  true.  I've 'been  unfaithful  for  ten  years. 
I've  never  been  faithful  and  I've  never  been  fair. 
I've  thought  of  the  business  and  politics  when  I 
ought  to  have  been  thinking  of  her.  I  worked  at 
them  and  I  didn't  work  at  Ada.  Don't  blame  Ada, 
mother.  I'll  not  have  that.  You  never  liked  her, 
and  you  prophesied  a  failure.  It's  been  a  failure, 
but  I  made  it  one ;  I  let  it  drift  when  I  ought  to  have 
taken  hold.  But  it  isn't  going  to  be  a  failure  now. 
I've  given  up  the  other  things  and  I've  come  back 
to  my  job,  the  job  I  neglected,  the  job  I  did  not  see 
was  there  at  all^antil "  He  paused. 

"  Till  what?  "  she  asked. 

"  Till  Effle  showed  it  me." 

"  Effie?  "  she  asked.  "  Oh!  Then  there's  some- 
thing in  their  talk." 

"Something?  There's  everything,  and  every- 
thing that's  wrong-headed  and  abominable.  That's 
where  this  hurts  me,  mother.  They'll  be  saying 
wrong  things  of  her,  of  Effie."  He  began  to  see  that 
gossip  mattered. 

"  What  would  be  the  right  things  to  say?  "  asked 
Anne  dryly.  "Who's  Effie?  And  do  you  mean  her 
when  you  say  you've  been  unfaithful  for  ten 


260  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  I  meant  what  I  said.  That  I've  put  other 
things  in  front  of  Ada." 

"  Including  Effle?  " 

"  Effie's  a  ray  from  heaven,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  aye,"  said  Anne  sceptically. 

"  Look  here,  mother,  you're  not  going  to  misun- 
derstand? " 

"  Not  if  you  can  make  me  understand." 

"  I  can  try,"  he  said,  "  and  the  chances  are  that 
I  shall  fail.  The  only  thing  that  will  make  you 
understand  Effie  is  to  see  her." 

"  Try  the- other  ways  first,"  said  Anne  grimly. 

"  She  made  me  see.  She  gave  me  everything. 
She  gave  me  herself.  I  found  myself  because  of  her 
and  I'm  only  living  in  the  light  she  gave  me."  It 
was  difficult  to  find  words  for  what  Effie  was  and 
meant  to  him.  "  I  don't  know  if  I  can  ever  ex- 
plain," he  faltered. 

"  Go  on.  You're  doing  very  well."  He  was  — 
Anne's  insight  helping  her. 

"  It's  like  rebirth.  It's  as  if  I'd  lived  till  I  met 
her  six  months  ago  with  crooked  eyesight.  I  didn't 

see  straight,  and  then,  mother "  He  hesitated 

as  a  man  will  hesitate  before  voicing  a  profound 
conviction,  afraid  lest  he  be  thought  absurd. 
"  Then  I  found  salvation.  I've  been  a  taker  and 
we're  here  to  give.  I  took  from  you " 

"  Leave  that,"  said  Anne  curtly.     "  I  know  it." 

"  And  I  didn't,"  he  replied.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  knew  nothing  till  Effie  came." 

"  Why  do  you  want  Ada  back?  " 

"  It's  time  I  gave  to  her." 

"  Did  Effie  show  you  that?  " 

"  Yes." 


THE  OLD  CAMPAIGNER  261 

Anne  was  silent  for  a  minute.  Then :  "  I'll  have 
a  look  at  Effie,"  she  said.  "  You  can  take  me  to 
her." 

"  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Sam.  "  We're  not  to 
meet." 

She  pondered  it,  and  him.  "Kate  told  me  you 
were  looking  ill,"  she  said  with  apparent  inconse- 
quence. "Well,  if  you  can't  take  me  to  Effie,  I 
must  go  alone.  I'm  going,  either  road.  Give  me 
her  address  and  I'll  go  to-morrow." 

He  wrote  it  down.  "  Effie  Mannering,"  she  read. 
"  Aye,"  she  said  grimly,  "  I'll  give  that  young 
woman  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  alarmed,  "  you'll  not  be  rude 
to  her!  You've  not  misunderstood?  " 

"  Maybe,"  said  Anne,  "  but  I  don't  think  so.  I 
think  I  understand  that  you've  got  your  silly  heads 
up  in  the  clouds  and  it'll  do  the  pair  of  you  a  lot  of 
good  to  have  them  brought  to  earth.  I'll  know  for 
sure  when  I've  set  eyes  on  her." 

"  You'll  see  the  glory  of  her,  then,"  he  said  de- 
fiantly. 

"  Shall  I?  "  she  asked.  "  If  you  ask  me,  Sam, 
there's  been  a  sight  too  much  glorification  about 
this  business.  It  shapes  to  me,"  she  went  on, 
thwarting  the  protest  which  was  leaping  to  his  lips. 
"  It  shapes  to  me  like  a  plain  case  of  love.  Aye, 
and  love's  too  rare  a  thing  in  this  world  to  be 
thrown  away.  I  was  never  one  to  waste." 

So  Anne  Branstone  took  control,  and  Sam  sat 
staring  at  her  helplessly  like  a  man  who  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE 

IT  might  very  well  have  occurred  to  Sam  to  retort 
that  he  and  Effie  had  not  "  their  silly  heads  in  the 
clouds  "  any  more  fantastically  than  had  Anne  her- 
self when  she  retreated  to  Madge's  and  watched  her 
loved  son  only  through  the  eyes  of  Kate  Earwalker. 
But  it  did  not  occur  to  him  and,  if  it  had,  Effle  at 
least  would  have  disproved  the  retort.  Effie  out- 
stripped them  all. 

The  truth  was  that  as  soon  as  Effie  knew  what 
was  the  matter  with  her  she  was  not  appalled,  dis- 
mayed, ashamed,  or  any  of  the  things  appropriate 
to  a  young  lady  in  her  situation,  but  simply  and 
purely  exultant.  Unhappiness  fell  from  her  like  a 
cloak,  and  left  her  radiant  with  joy.  And  she  had 
called  herself  a  realist ! 

She  was  a  realist;  she  was  engrossed  with  fact, 
not  with  the  circumstantial  detail  of  her  fact.  She 
hardly  wanted  Sam  now,  she  had  him,  she  was  miles 
and  leagues  from  care,  alone  in  a  shining  world  with 
her  transcendant  fact.  Courage  returned  in  full 
flood  to  her  and  she  brimmed  with  bravery  and 
pride. 

She  was  out  of  work  and  must  find  work  quickly 
which  would  pay  her  well.  She  was  going  to  suffer, 
she  was  going  (to  put  it  mildly)  to  be  misunder- 
stood. What  did  it  matter,  what  did  anything 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  263 

matter  in  comparison  with  her  exultant  fact?  She 
was  going  to  be  the  mother  of  his  child.  Marbeck 
was  not  a  dream;  Marbeck  was  coming  true,  and 
the  truth  and  the  glory  of  it  swept  her  to  a  heaven 
which  only  women  know. 

Perhaps  she  was  a  trespasser  within  the  gates, 
but  they  had  opened  to  her  and  they  would  not  close. 
She  might  be  prosecuted  for  her  trespass.  Let 
them  try!  You  cannot  hurt  invulnerability.  She 
was  a  world  within  a  world,  self-satisfying,  self- 
complete,  not  so  much  derisive  of  the  other  world 
as  utterly  forgetful  of  it.  Her  cloud  of  glory  hid  it 
from  her  eyes,  and  if  she  peeped  at  all  through 
breaches  in  the  cloud  she  saw  people  as  one  sees 
them  on  the  road  beneath  a  mountain-top,  like 
crawling  ants. 

A  knock  came  at  her  door,  and  she  looked  be- 
mused through  a  gap  in  the  clouds  into  the  eyes  of 
Dubby  Stewart,  but  it  was  not  to  look  at  the  world 
which  did  not  understand.  It  was  to  look  at 
Dubby,  who  loved  her. 

And  Dubby  knew.  It  had  not  been  difficult  to 
know.  She  had  refused  him,  she  had  let  him  see 
why,  and  Sam  and  Effie  had  been  away  from  Man- 
chester at  the  same  time.  It  was  not  precise  evi- 
dence, but  he  had  written  leaderettes  on  evidence 
not  more  exact  and  did  not  doubt  the  facts.  They 
.had  kept  him  from  her  till  now,  but  he  could  keep 
away  no  longer.  And  before  he  went  into  her  room 
he  knew  all  there  was  to  know. 

"  Effie,"  he  said,  "  I'm  not  sure  if  I'm  welcome." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are,"  she  said.  "  I  ought  to  have 
written  to  you  long  ago.  I've  been  home  weeks 
from  my  holiday."  It  was  no  use  trying  to  see 


264  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Dubby  as  a  crawling  ant,  and  she  gave  her  hand  in 
friendship. 

"  That  breaks  the  ice,"  he  said. 

"  If  there  was  ice  to  break." 

"  Well,"  he  reminded  her,  "  I  said  I  didn't  love 
and  run  away,  and  I  did  more  or  less  run  away. 
I  came  one  Sunday  because  I  said  I  would,  but  I 
couldn't  do  it  again.  The  trouble  with  me  is  that 
I  ought  to  be  a  journalist,  and  after  about  twelve 
years  of  it  I'm  still  human." 

"  Dubby !     I'm  sorry !  " 

"  All  right,  Effie ;  I  didn't  come  to  bleat.  That's 
only  an  apology  for  not  coming  before.  And  now 
I'm  here " 

"  You'll  have  tea,"  she  said  quickly,  going  to  the 
bell,  but  he  caught  her  hand  before  she  pulled. 

"  Do  you  want  to  put  a  table  between  us?  Do, 
if  you  must  "  —  he  released  her  hand  —  "  but  I'd 
hoped  it  wrould  not  come  to  that.  Shall  I  ring  the 
bell,  Miss  Mannering?  " 

"  You  needn't  punish  me  by  calling  names. 
Don't  ring."  She  armed  herself  with  courage,  and 
turned  to  face  him. 

"  Thanks.  Really  thanks,  Effie.  I  know  I'm  a 
bore,  but  if  the  old  song  has  a  good  tune  to  it  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  sing  twice.  It  is  a  good 
tune,"  he  went  on  with  a  passion  which  belied  his 
surface  flippancy.  "  It's  the  best  I  have  in  me, 
which  mayn't  be  saying  much,  because  I've  a  rotten 
ear  for  music,  but  this  tune's  got  me  badly,  like  the 
diseases  they  play  on  the  barrel-organs,  and  I  can't 
lose  it.  I  get  up  to  it  in  the  morning,  and  I  go  to 
bed  to  it  at  night,  and  it's  ringing  in  my  ears  all 
day.  Effie,  I'm  not  much  of  a  cove  and  I've  flat- 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  265 

tered  myself  that  sincerity  departed  from  me  when 
I  cut  my  wisdom  teeth.  I  tried  to  live  up  to  that 
belief  and  it's  only  half  come  off.  I've  tried  to 
make  a  raree-show  of  life,  to  sit  outside  and  watch 
the  puppets  play,  and  life's  won.  Life's  got  me 
down,  and  I'm  inside  now.  I'm  where  you've  put 
me,  and  a  good  place  too:  I'm  near  the  radiator 
and  it  warms  the  cockles  of  my  heart.  But  I  never 
liked  radiators.  Mind  you,  I  can  do  with  them  and 
I  can  be  grateful  for  them.  If  a  season  ticket  for 
life  for  a  seat  near  the  radiator  is  all  that  you  can 
give  me,  I  can  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  thank  you 
for  what  I've  got.  But  I  never  had  a  passion  for 
radiators,  and  I  do  like  fires.  There's  life  in  a 
fire.  Must  it  be  just  the  radiator,  or  can  you  make 
it  hearth  and  home  for  us?  " 

"  Dubby,"  she  said,  "  I  told  you  before." 

"  I  know.     Nothing  doing  in  second  thoughts?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"All  right.  I  only  got  drunk  last  time.  This 
time  it  will  need  the  binge  of  my  life.  I'd  cherished 
hopes  of  this." 

"  Drunk,"  she  said  reproachfully.  "  With  a  stiff 
upper  lip?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno,"  he  said.  "  It  takes  a  stiff  upper 
lip  to  get  me  to  the  dentist's,  but  I  make  him  use  an 
anaesthetic  all  the  same.  Still,  if  you'd  rather  I 
didn't " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  braver." 

"  Right.  But  I'd  like  to  hit  something.  There's 
nobody  you'd  like  me  to  hit,  is  there?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Sure?  "  he  said.  He  had  it  well  in  mind  that 
somebody  ought  to  hit  Sam.  "  Let's  get  back  to 


266  THE  MARBECK  INN 

where  we  were  before  I  made  a  stump  oration  — 
to  when  I  came  in  and  you  looked  at  me  like  a 
friend." 

"  I  hope  I  always  shall." 

"All  right.  It's  the  privilege  of  a  friend  to  be 
impertinent,  and  I'm  rather  good  at  impertinence. 
You  see,  Effie  old  thing,  you're  supposed  to  be  one 
of  the  world's  workers,  and  you're  not  at  the  office 
to-day.  You  haven't  been  at  the  office  for  weeks. 
I  know,  because  I  gave  Florrie  half  a  crown." 
Florrie  was  the  maid.  "And  it  isn't  that  you've 
come  into  money,  because  Florrie  tells  me  you've 
been  starving  yourself." 

"  I've  not."  Effie  wras  indignant.  She  had  not 
starved  herself.  While  all  was  dreary,  food  had 
certainly  not  attracted  her,  but  neither  had  any- 
thing else ;  and  she  expected  to  take  a  lively  interest 
in  it  now.  "  Really  I've  not." 

"  What  you  say  goes,"  he  said.  "  And  Florrie 
imagined  it,  but  she  didn't  imagine  the  part  about 
your  not  going  to  the  office,  and  if  anything's  wrong 
there,  don't  forget  that  I  know  Branstone  pretty 
well.  I  can  talk  to  him  like  a  father." 

"  There's  nothing  wrong,  anywhere,"  she  said, 
and,  indeed,  things  were  not  only  not  wrong  but 
exuberantly  right,  only  she  could  not  tell  him 
why. 

"  You're  sure  of  that?  "  he  persisted.  "  There's 
nothing  you  can  tell  a  pal?  Nothing  you  can  tell 
me,  when  you  know  I'd  walk  through  fire  for  you? 
Damn  it,  I  can't  pretend.  I'm  not  a  friend.  I'm 
a  man  in  love,  and  I  ask  you  to  be  fair." 

"  Dubby,"  she  pleaded,  "  don't  make  things  too 
hard  for  me." 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  267 

"  Is  it  I  who  make  them  hard?  "  he  asked,  "  or 
is  it  Sam?" 

She  looked  at  him  amazed,  and  certainly  Effie 
was  stupid  then,  or,  at  least,  too  wrapped  up  in  her 
great  preoccupation  to  be  alert.  "  Oh,  don't  be 
petty,"  she  said.  "  I  didn't  debit  you  with 
jealousy." 

"No?  No?  And  yet  I  have  a  certain  right  to 
be  jealous  of  him.  I  think  you  won't  deny  it." 

It  wasn't  what  he  said  or  even  the  deep  bitterness 
of  his  tone,  it  was  something  in  his  eyes,  like  a  hurt 
animal's,  which  made  her  quite  suddenly,  and  as 
a  thing  apart  from  his  words,  see  what  had  hap- 
pened. But  she  did  not  see  even  now  the  whole  of 
Dubby's  love  and  the  beauty  of  his  knightly  move. 

"  You  know  !  "  she  said.  "  Dubby,  you  knew 
when  you  spoke  just  now.  You  knew  that  Sam  and 


"  I  told  you  I  had  a  word  with  Florrie." 

"  Florrie?  "  she  asked.  "What  could  Florrie 
tell  you?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  "  that  she  knew  she  told. 
Guessing  is  another  of  the  things  I'm  good  at." 

She  saw  it  then,  to  what  perceptiveness  his  love 
had  brought  him,  to  what  high  action.  It  had  sped 
her  cloud  and  she  saw,  clear-eyed  as  he,  his  fine, 
impeccable  fidelity. 

"  Oh  !  And  I  called  you  petty  !  I  told  you  you 
were  jealous.  Dubby,  I  didn't  know.  You'd  have 
done  that  for  me  !  " 

"  Well,  you  see,"  he  apologized,  "  I'm  in  love  with 
you." 

"  Why  can't  we  order  love?  Why  does  it  come 
all  wrong?  "  she  cried. 


268  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  It  hasn't  come  so  wrong  but  I  can  put  it  right 
for  you,"  he  said,  making  his  offer  again. 

"I?  I  didn't  mean  myself,"  she  said,  wonder- 
ing. "  Love's  not  come  wrong  to  me.  It's  you  I'm 
thinking  of." 

"  But  is  it  right  for  you?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  smiled.     "  Terrifically." 

"  Is  it?  When  Sam  has  not  been  near  you  in 
weeks?  "  It  was  wedged  in  his  mind  that  Sam  was 
playing  the  villain.  "  When  you  are  here  alone, 
do  you  see  him,  Effie?  " 

"  No.     That's  why  it's  all  so  right." 

He  shook  his  head,  perplexed.  "  It  may  be  good 
metaphysics,  but  it  sounds  bad  sense.  I'll  be  quite 
honest  with  you.  I'm  suffering  pretty  badly  from 
suppressed  desire  to  horsewhip  Sam  Branstone.  I 
think  he  deserves  it,  I  know  I'd  enjoy  it  and  I  think 
you're  trying  to  head  me  off  it.  I  daresay  it's 
primitive  of  me,  but  it  will  do  me  good  and  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  I  need  good  doing  to  me.  Effie, 
mayn't  I  go  and  horsewhip  Sam?  " 

"  If  anybody's  going  to  horsewhip  Sam,"  said  a 
voice,  "  it's  me.  I'm  in  charge  of  this  job,  not  you, 
my  lad." 

They  had  not  seen  Anne  come  in.  They  saw  her 
now,  a  little  old  woman  of  the  working  class  in  her 
best  clothes,  with  a  bugled  cape  and  cotton  gloves, 
elastic-sided  boots  and  a  quaint  bonnet  tied  with 
ribbon  beneath  her  chin,  and,  unaccountably,  she 
filled  the  room.  They  would  have  passed  her  in  the 
street  without  a  second  glance  as  one  of  the  throng, 
at  face  value  insignificant;  but  this  was  not  Anne 
in  the  street.  It  was  Anne  in  arms  for  Sam,  and 
when  Effie  and  Stewart  compared  notes  afterwards 


269 

they  each  confessed  to  having  had  the  same  thought : 
that  their  eyes  were  traitors  and  that  what  they 
saw  was  fantasy  and  what  they  felt  was  real. 

"  I'm  Sam's  mother,"  she  introduced  herself, 
"  and  it's  like  enough  I  were  overfond  of  him  when 
he  was  a  lad  and  didn't  thrash  enough,  but  I'm  not 
too  old  to  start  again.  You'll  be  Effie?  Aye,  I've 
come  round  here  to  put  things  in  their  places. 
They've  got  a  bit  askew  amongst  the  lot  of  you,  and 
what  I  heard  when  I  came  in  won't  help."  She 
looked  accusingly  at  Dubby.  "  You'll  be  her 
brother,  I  reckon?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  the  best  way  out.  Anne  had 
come  to  "  put  things  in  their  places,"  and  she  reck- 
oned he  was  Effie's  brother,  which,  now  he  thought 
of  it,  was  exactly  his  place.  Brotherhood  was 
thrust  upon  him,  but  he  thought  he  had  achieved 
it.  Plainly,  for  all  Effie's  enigmas,  there  was 
nothing  else  for  him,  and  he  let  Anne  put  him  in  his 
place. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  without  a  glance  at  Effie,  "  her 
brother." 

"  You're  a  clean-limbed  family,"  she  compli- 
mented them,  and  Dubby  stole  a  look  at  Effie,  half 
humorous  and  half  defying  her  to  contradict  his 
brotherhood.  "  Well,  I  came  to  see  Effie,  but  I'll 
none  gainsay  that  her  brother  has  a  right  to  stay 
and  listen,  if  he'll  listen  quiet." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dubby,  still  challenging  Effie,  "  her 
brother  has  a  right."  And  Effie  did  not  deny  him. 
She  had  her  courage,  but  the  unexpectedness  of 
Anne  and  the  force  of  her,  as  if  for  all  these  years 
she  had  been  winding  up  her  will,  which  now  came 
into  play  like  a  spring  immensely  braced  in  super- 


270  THE  MARBECK  INN 

tightened  coils,  caused  her  to  want  an  ally  and  she 
agreed  that  Dubby  had  a  right  if  not  the  one  con- 
ferred on  him  by  Anne. 

"Won't  you  sit,  Mrs.  Branstone?  "  she  said. 

"  I  was  wondering  when  I  should  hear  your 
voice,"  said  Anne.  "  You're  not  a  talker,  lass." 

"  No,"  said  Effie. 

"  More  of  a  doer."  Effie  was  wondering  whether 
that  was  praise  or  condemnation,  when  Anne 
added :  "  I  like  you  the  better  for  that,  though  it's 
a  good  voice.  I  haven't  heard  it  much,  but  I've 
heard  it.  I  haven't  seen  you  much,  but  I've  seen 
enough.  I'm  on  your  side,  Effie."  She  astonished 
them  both  by  rising  as  if  to  go. 

"  But,"  said  Dubby,  "  is  that  all?  " 

Anne  looked  with  humorous  sympathy  at  Effie. 
"  That's  men  all  over,  isn't  it?  "  she  said.  "  They're 
fond  of  calling  women  talkers,  but  a  man's  not 
happy  till  a  thing's  been  put  in  words.  Me  and 
your  sister  understand  each  other  now." 

"  I'm  not  quite  certain  that  I  do,"  said  Effie. 
'"  Well,  maybe  you're  right,"  conceded  Anne. 
"  It's  a  fact  that  I  told  Sam  last  night  I  was  coming 
round  here  to  give  you  a  piece  of  my  mind,  and  I 
don't  notice  that  I'm  doing  it.  The  need  seemed  to 
go  when  I  set  eyes  on  you,  and  I'm  pretty  full  of  a 
thing  I  want  to  do,  only  I've  not  quite  got  the  face 
to  ask." 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Branstone?  " 

"  I  want  to  kiss  you,  lass,"  said  Anne. 

Dubby  Stewart  had  for  the  second  time  that  day 
the  impression  that  women  talked,  so  to  speak,  in 
hieroglyphics.  .  ,  .  There  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of 
feminine  shorthand  to  which  only  women  held  the 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  271 

key,  and  he  did  not  understand  the  sudden  soften- 
ing of  Effie's  face  nor  her  quick  response.  And  he 
did  not  know  why,  when  Anne  kissed  her,  Effie  said, 
"  No,  no,"  nor  why  Anne  said,  "  It  isn't  no.  It's 
yes."  A  kiss,  it  seemed,  had  various  meanings. 

Anne  in  effect  had  conveyed  to  Effie  that  she 
thanked  her  and,  more,  she  honoured  her.  Effie 
denied  that  she  merited  honour  and  Anne  main- 
tained that  she  did. 

"  Aye,"  said  Anne,  "  he's  had  two  dips  in  the 
lucky-bag  and  he's  drawn  a  prize  this  time.  It's 
more  than  any  man  deserves,  but  we'll  not  grudge 
it  Sam,  will  we,  Effie?  "  And  to  Dubby  the  thing 
took  on  a  fresh  aspect  of  bewilderment.  If  that 
meant  anything,  it  meant  that  Anne  was  welcoming 
a  daughter.  Didn't  the  woman  know  that  Sam 
was  married? 

"  I've  grudged  him  nothing,"  Effie  said. 

Anne  meditated  that,  then  looked  at  Effie  with  a 
touch  of  what  was,  for  her,  shyness.  "  You've 
grudged  him  nothing,"  she  disagreed,  "  except  your 
pride  in  giving  up.  And  you  can  do  it,  you  can 
give  up,  but  Sam's  nobbut  a  man,  and  they're  a 
weak  flesh,  men.  He  looks  the  shadow  of  himself," 
she  exaggerated  resolutely. 

"  Does  he? "  said  Effie  anxiously,  and  Anne 
nodded  a  sombre  face.  "  What  do  you  want  me  to 
do,  Mrs.  Branstone?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  give  up  giving  up.  Sam  said  a 
thing  to  me  last  night.  He  said  you'd  make  him 
find  salvation.  Well,  happen;  but  what's  certain 
sure  is  that  you  made  him  find  love.  He's  found 
it,  lass,  and  he  mustn't  lose  it,  and  he  will  if  you 
leave  things  where  they  are.  He's  trying  to  do  a 


872  THE  MARBECK  INN 

thing  that  isn't  possible.  He's  trying  to  live  aside 
of  Ada,  loving  you.  He'll  try  to  love  her  for  the 
love  of  you,  and  kiss  her,  telling  himself  he's  kiss- 
ing you,  and  it  will  not  be  you;  and  the  love  he 
tries  to  bring  her  will  turn  to  loathing  in  his  heart. 
And  what' 11  happen  then,  when  love  goes  sour 
within  him?  Eh,  lass,  you  took  yon  lad  to  heaven 
and  you're  sending  him  to  hell." 

It  was  not  fair  to  Stewart.  It  was  hardly  bear- 
able :  he  was  not  her  brother  and  he  hadn't  the  feel- 
ings of  a  brother.  He  saw  great  happiness  in 
Effie's  face,  as  if  two  happinesses  mingled  there,  the 
one  of  giving  up  her  dream,  the  other  of  awakening 
to  a  sweet  reality.  He  saw  her  put  out  a  hand 
towards  Anne,  surrendering,  consenting,  giving  all 
in  one  swift,  heady  leap  from  cloud  to  earth,  and 
then  he  saw  her  sway,  and  caught  her  in  time  to 
break  her  fall. 

Anne  eyed  him  sharply.  "  Have  you  heard  of 
your  sister's  fainting  before,  lately?  "  she  asked, 
busy  on  her  knees  with  Effie. 

"  Yes.  Florrie  told  me.  Twice.  Can  I  do 
anything?  " 

"  I'll  bring  her  round,"  said  Anne.  "  But  you 
can  do  something.  You  can  go  to  Sam  at  his  office 
and  tell  him  he's  wanted  here.  Tell  him  I  want 
him,  and  there's  news  for  him.  Send  Florrie  up 
as  you  go,  and  you  needn't  take  that  horsewhip  with 
you,  neither." 

"  No.     I  needn't  take  it  now." 

So  Dubby,  Effie's  brother,  went  out  on  an  em- 
bassy for  Anne.  "Feeling  it?  Feeling?"  he 
thought,  "you  God-abandoned  devil,  what  right 
have  you  to  feel?  A  journalist.  A  looker-on. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  MOVE  273 

There's  a  story  in  this  for  you.  There's  the  guts  of 
a  story  given  away  to  you  with  a  cup  of  tea  .  .  . 
oh,  no,  we  didn't  have  the  tea ;  given  neat,  and  you 
can't  be  decently  grateful.  What's  the  title? 
'The  Charwoman's  Son'?  No,  damned  if  it  is. 
Something  about  brother.  Brother!  Yes,  you 
blighter,  brother  .  .  .  brother,  and  proud  of  it. 
<  Pride  of  Kin.'  That'll  do,  and  God  help  me  to 
live  up  to  it."  He  turned  into  Sam's  office  and 
delivered  his  message  in  a  cold,  unemotional  voice. 
It  seemed  that  Effie,  brave  herself,  was  the  cause 
of  bravery  in  others. 

"  Effie !  My  mother !  What  have  you  to  do 
with  them?  "  asked  Sam,  amazed. 

"  I've  given  you  a  message,"  said  the  taciturn 
herald. 

"But  what's  behind  it,  Dubby?    Is  Effie  ill?" 

Stewart  was  silent. 

"Is  she  — dead?" 

Dubby  was  tempted  to  say  he  didn't  know.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  things  went  too  happily  with 
Branstone,  that  it  was  fit,  if  only  for  the  twenty 
minutes  which  it  would  take  for  him  to  reach 
Kusholme,  to  let  Sam  think  that  Effie  might  be 
dead,  to  let  him  taste  the  flavour  of  torture. 
Dubby  suffered  and  would  suffer,  not  for  twenty 
minutes  but,  he  gloomily  anticipated,  for  a  life- 
time. Let  Sam  have  his  minutes  of  it!  Then  he 
remembered  he  was  Erne's  brother,  and  before  Sam 
had  his  hat  and  coat  on,  malice  had  left  him.  "  It's 
all  right,  man,"  he  said.  "  She's  neither  ill  nor 
dead.  They've  got  good  news  for  you." 


IF  there  was  news  which  Anne  must  send  post- 
haste to  bid  him  come  to  hear,  and  if  Effle  was 
neither  ill  nor  dead,  he  need  not  overtax  his  wits  to 
guess  it.  Yet  he  had  never  thought  of  this  very 
natural  sequel  to  the  Marbeck  week,  and  the  plain 
fact  is  that  he  did  not  much  want  to  think  of  it  now. 

"  I  like  your  Effie,"  Anne  told  him.  "  I  like  her 
very  well.  She's  going  to  make  a  grandmother  of 
me." 

He  thought  his  mother  had  never  been  fatuous 
before :  she  thought  he  took  the  news  morosely,  and 
perhaps  her  expectation  had  been  too  high.  She 
assumed  that  a  child  was  the  first  consideration  of 
a  man's  life;  which  is  not  true,  even,  of  all  women 
and  true  of  only  a  minority  of  men. 

Nor  was  Sam,  in  fact,  morose.  He  had  never 
been  more  intensely  and  silently  alive.  In  itself, 
this  thing  was  right  with  a  shining  exultant  right- 
ness  which  warmed  him  to  the  marrow.  It  crowned 
and  completed  Marbeck  and  it  crowned  and  com- 
pleted him.  He  who  was  childless  was  to  be  a 
father,  and  by  Effie !  He  had  nothing  but  a  thank- 
ful emotion  for  that,  and  looked  with  yearning  eyes 
at  Effie,  giver  of  all  else,  who  was  now  to  give  him 
this.  He  had  not  known  her  wonder  could  increase. 

He  saw  that  more 'was  expected  of  him  than  that 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS        275 

he  should  look  at  her  adoringly.  Anne  was  on  tip- 
toe with  anticipation.  Her  difficulty,  if  indeed  she 
had  acknowledged  to  herself  that  there  was  any, 
had  been  to  make  these  visionaries  see  that  love 
mattered  and  that  Ada  did  not;  and  her  success 
with  Effie  had  been  complete.  She  had  never 
doubted  of  success  with  Sam,  the  weaker  vessel, 
for  there  was  love,  sufficient  in  itself;  and  there  was 
now  the  added  argument  of  Effie's  child.  She  could 
not  see  that  he  had  any  choice. 

He  stood  there  conscious  of  the  expectancy  of 
their  regard,  and  knew  that  he  was  failing  them. 
He  thought  they  took  a  blinkered  view,  seeing  the 
child  and  nothing  else.  To  them,  apparently,  the 
child  came  first :  they  were  hypnotized  by  what  was, 
really,  an  afterthought,  and  there  was  the  greater 
need  for  him  to  keep  a  steadfast  eye  upon  the  truth. 
As  he  saw  it,  the  truth  was  that  he  had  put  his  hand 
to  another  plough;  on  Hartle  Pike  he  had  lighted 
such  a  candle  by  Effie's  grace  as  he  trusted  would 
never  be  put  out;  and  he  had  gone  to  Ada.  True, 
Ada  had  gone  from  him,  but  that  was  temporary 
and  trivial,  whereas  here  was  a  real  distraction  and 
he  saw  two  loyalties  before  him  —  to  Effie  and  the 
idea,  and  to  Effie  and  her  child.  It  seemed  to  Sam 
that  the  first  was  the  greater  of  these  two. 

He  had  wrestled  with  an  afterthought  before,  one 
which  hardly  yielded  in  temptation  to  that  which 
now  confronted  him,  and  he  had  thrown  it.  He 
had  refused  to  contest  Sandyford  because  there  was 
not  room  for  politics  in  a  scheme  which  included 
Ada,  and  still  less  was  there  room  for  Effie.  He 
felt  faint  with  discouragement  at  the  thought  that 
Effie,  unless  appearance  belied  her,  had  capitulated 


276  THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  her  afterthought,  but  he  stood  firmly  by  their 
treaty.  They  had  decided  that  duty  came  first; 
he  had  shouldered  duty;  and  he,  at  any  rate,  had 
no  room  for  afterthoughts. 

He  was  loyal  to  Effie  and  the  Marbeck  pact,  duty's 
bondsman,  Ada's  husband.  He  made  a  gesture  of 
decision,  which  Anne  misinterpreted. 

"  Aye,"  she  said  a  little  smugly,  "  this  settles  it 
all  right.  It  wasn't  common  sense  in  you  to  part 
before,  but  I  reckon  there'll  be  no  parting  now." 

"No,"  said  Effie  softly,  "not  now."  She  stole 
a  look  of  shy,  glad  confidence  at  Sam,  and  he  found 
it  extraordinarily  difficult  to  meet  her  eye,  and 
still  more  difficult  to  say  what  he  must,  at  any  cost, 
get  said. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  said  at  last,  wishing  the 
earth  would  swallow  him. 

At  that  moment  he  would  cheerfully  have  given 
a  hand  to  escape  having  to  differ  from  them.  They 
were  Effie  and  his  mother:  they  were  his  mother  and 
Effie:  the  two  women  to  whom  he  owed  everything: 
more,  he  loved  Effie  so  that  every  fibre  in  him 
yearned  for  her,  and,  even  more  than  that,  he  was 
delicately  sensitive  to  Effie  in  her  present  case. 
But  it  couldn't  change  him.  His  loyalty  was  en- 
gaged, to  fanaticism,  to  another  Effie,  high  Effie  of 
the  hills,  of  the  crusade  and  the  idea;  and  this 
seemed  to  him  somehow,  a  lower  Effie,  an  Effie  who 
had  dipped  the  flag  of  her  ideal  to  a  coming  baby, 
whilst  he  was  faithful  to  the  old  unbending  Effie 
who  had  thrown  an  imitation  wedding  ring  away. 
It  almost  seemed  as  if  she  wanted  that  ring  back, 
base  metal  though  it  was. 

A  case,  perhaps,  of  splitting  hairs,  but,  at  any 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS        277 

rate,  the  case  of  a  man  with  a  faith  at  one  extreme 
and  at  the  other  his  miserable  conviction  that  hap- 
piness was  not  for  him.  He  had  abandoned  happi- 
ness when  he  left  Marbeck,  and  lived  now  in  a  place 
where  happiness  was  barred  by  Ada. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  he  repeated  drearily.  "  You 
see,  there's  Ada  and  I  have  to  be  fair  to  her." 

"  Ada's  left  you,"  snapped  Anne.  A  contentious 
Sam  was  not  going  to  find  her  amiable. 

He  chose  to  put  it  in  another  way.  "  My  wife," 
he  said,  "  is  staying  at  present  with  her  father. 
Yes,  mother,"  he  went  on  firmly,  "  I'm  going  to  be 
fair  to  Ada  and  I've  to  guard  against  unfairness  all 
the  more  because  you  won't  be  fair.  You  won't  be 
ordinarily  just.  You  always  hated  Ada." 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed  viciously.  "  I'm  a  clean 
woman.  I  always  hated  vermin." 

Sain  turned  to  Effie  immensely  heartened  by  this 
virulence.  "  You  see !  "  he  appealed,  calling  to 
witness  the  hopeless  bias  of  his  mother.  It  was,  he 
wished  to  imply,  this  blind  hatred  of  Anne  for  Ada 
which  accounted  for  his  mother's  attitude,  her 
exalting  of  —  well  —  the  mistress  over  the  wife,  her 
flagrant  unmorality.  He  tried  to  put  all  this  into 
his  gesture.  "  And  you,"  he  reinforced  it,  "  you 
sent  me  to  her,  Effie." 

She  bowed  her  head,  admitting  it,  but  Anne  was 
not  prepared  to  let  it  go  at  that.  "Even  Effie," 
she  said  "  can  make  a  mistake.  She  would  not  send 
you  now." 

And,  looking  at  Effie,  he  saw  that  it  was  true. 
He  had  seen  it  from  the  first  and  it  bothered  him 
profoundly.  Effie  had  changed:  there  was,  in  all 
they  said,  this  noticeable  stressing  of  the  "  now," 


278  THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  differentiate  them  from  the  "  then."  What  was 
it?  Anne's  arguments,  or  the  baby,  or  had  Effie, 
uninfluenced  by  either,  really  changed  her  mind 
about  the  Marbeck  treaty?  He  couldn't  believe 
that  last.  Marbeck  was  infallible  and  he  was 
dogged  in  the  faith.  He  responded  to  the  Marbeck 
creed  like  the  needle  of  a  compass  to  the  meridian, 
and  if  with  this  needle  also  there  was  deflection  it 
was  corrected  by  his  racial  stubbornness.  He  had 
his  people's  queer,  infatuated  pride  in  the  con- 
templation of  their  own  tenacity,  even  when,  per- 
haps mostly  when,  it  hurts  to  be  tenacious. 

Whereas  Effie  had  known  ever  since  Dubby 
Stewart  brought  her  back  from  cloud-land  that 
Marbeck  was  very  fallible  indeed,  or,  rather,  Mar- 
beck  was  one  thing  and  living  up  to  Marbeck  was 
another.  If  he  had  said,  instead  of  only  thinking, 
that  she  was  a  lower  Effie  now,  she  would  not  have 
contradicted  him,  though  she  did  not  want  a  wed- 
ding ring  of  either  metal.  She  wanted  Sam.  She 
was  changed  from  the  idealist  who  thought  she 
could  be -happy  as  a  sign-post  and  a  spiritual  guide. 
She  had  come  down  to  Mother  Earth  where  men  and 
women  live.  At  Marbeck  they  were  on  an  altitude 
where  the  air  was  too  rarefied  for  human  lungs,  and 
she  wanted  to  fall  with  Sam  from  selflessness  to 
mere  humanity. 

"  No,"  she  agreed  again  with  Anne,  "  I  should 
not  send  you  now." 

"  I  shall  have  to  think  this  out,"  he  said.  Effie 
admitted  to  being  earthly,  and  he  was  horribly  dis- 
mayed! "Effie,"  he  cried  in  pain,  "don't  you 
see?  "  He  wanted  desperately  to  be  understood  by 
her,  if  not  by  Anne. 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS         279 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  and  not  without  pride  either. 
Whatever  was  fine  in  him,  whatever  reacted  from 
an  EfiQe  come  to  earth,  was  due  to  her,  and  she  was 
proud  of  him  even  when,  as  now,  he  used  her  tem- 
pered steel  against  her. 

Anne  watched  with  a  grim  appreciation  his 
anxiety  to  make  a  pikestaff  plain.  "  We  all  see," 
she  said.  "  You're  none  so  deep  and  we're  none  so 
daft  as  all  that.  You've  got  a  maggot  in  your 
brain,  and  I  know  the  shape  of  it.  I've  had  the 
same  in  mine,  and  if  you'll  think  back  ten  years, 
you'll  know  what  I  mean.  We're  the  same  breed, 
Sam,  and  we  can  both  do  silly  things  and  stand  by 
them  and  suffer  for  them.  I  flitted  from  you  to 
Madge,  and  I  didn't  set  eyes  on  you  from  that  day 
till  last  night.  That's  what  I  mean  by  suffering." 

And  there,  in  those  few  words,  the  tragedy  of 
ten  years  stood  confessed.  Parted  from  Sain,  she 
lived  in  exile,  suffering,  and,  of  course,  he  had 
known  it  and  deliberately  forgot  it,  so  that  the 
point  of  her  revelation  was  not  its  truth,  but  the 
amazing  fact  that  she  should  speak  of  it  at  all. 
Anne  had  the  pride  which  suffers  silently. 

"  Mother !  "  he  said,  distressed  for  her. 

"  Nay,  none  of  that,"  she  bade  him  harshly.  "  If 
I  were  soft  enough  to  let  it  hurt  me,  that's  my  look- 
out. But  here's  the  point,  Sam.  There's  another 
woman  soft  about  you,  too,  and  she's  not  the  same 
as  me.  I'd  had  you  since  I  bore  you,  and  I  were 
not  young  when  you  and  me  came  to  a  parting; 
but  she's  young,  and  you'll  none  make  Effie  suffer 
the  road  I  suffered  while  there's  strength  in  me  to 
say  you  nay.  I'd  have  gone  to  my  grave  without 
your  knowing  this  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Effie.  It's 


280  THE  MARBECK  INN 

not  good  for  a  man  to  know  too  much.  They're 
easy  stuffed  with  pride." 

She  pretended,  with  deep  magnanimity,  to  think 
that  he  had  not  known  until  she  told  him,  but  they 
both  knew  very  well  that  he  had  always  known. 
She  dwelt  deliberately  on  it  now  to  inform  him,  not 
of  her  suffering,  but  of  the  intensity  of  her  feeling 
for  Effie.  It  was  so  intense  that  she  could  speak  of 
her  own  suffering :  for  Effie's  sake  she  had  unveiled, 
thrown  off  her  stoicism,  and  flung  the  spoken  truth 
as  a  challenge  and  a  revelation  at  him. 

He  knew  what  speaking  in  this  manner  cost  her, 
but  he  was  stubborn  still  in  relating  all  she  said  to 
her  ungovernable  hate  of  Ada;  whereas  Anne  did 
not  hate  Ada  ungovernably,  but  only  when  Ada 
hurt  Sam. 

Again  he  said  "  Mother ! "  and  got  no  further 
with  it. 

"  I  know  I'm  your  mother,"  she  said,  "  and  you 
can  stop  thinking  of  me  now  and  think  of  Effie." 

"  I'm  trying  to,"  he  said. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Anne  impatiently.  She  hadn't 
imagined  an  obstinacy  which  would  not  yield  to 
what  she  had  said.  Surely  he  knew  the  sacrifice  of 
pride  she  made  in  saying  it !  And  there  was  Effie, 
too,  who  said  little  and  looked  the  more. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  despaired. 

"  Then  others  must  know  for  you,"  said  Anne, 
and  when  his  lips  only  tightened  at  that,  "  Sam," 
she  pleaded,  "surely  you'll  never  go  against  the 
pair  of  us." 

But  there  were  two  Effies,  and  he  wasn't  "  going 
against "  them  both,  while  he  held  Anne  to  be 
mesmerized  by  hate  of  Ada.  For  all  that,  it  deso- 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS        281 

lated  him  to  be  in  opposition  to  them  now,  to  Anne 
and  Effie,  the  women  who  counted,  the  women  who 
gave.  "  Still,"  he  had  to  say,  "  there's  Ada." 

He  said  it,  as  he  hoped  to  say  it,  finally.  He 
wanted  to  get  away  from  these  two,  to  escape  from 
their  distracting  presence  to  a  place  where  he  could 
think.  After  all,  Hartle  Pike  had  not  settled  his 
problem,  and  he  must  try  somewhere  else  —  Platt 
Fields,  perhaps.  They  had  a  sort  of  space. 

But  he  could  not  escape  —  not,  at  least,  till  Anne 
had  played  her  ace.  Anne  had  not  finished  yet, 
though  she  had  hoped  ten  years  in  the  wilderness 
had  been  enough.  It  seemed  that  they  were  not, 
and  she  must  wander  still.  Well,  she  could  do 
what  she  must. 

"  Oh,  aye,"  she  said  dryly,  "  there's  Ada.  There's 
your  bad  ha'penny,  and  I  reckon  summat'll  have  to 
be  done  with  her.  But  if  you'll  stop  worrying, 
lad,  and  if  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I'll  take  Ada 
on  myself." 

Effie  started  towards  her.     "  No,  no,"  she  cried. 

"  You  hold  your  hush,"  said  Anne.  This  was 
Anne's  game,  not  Effie's. 

Sam  was  still  staring  at  her.  "  You !  "  he  said. 
"  What  can  you  do?  " 

"  I  can  see  you  and  Effie  happy,  and  I  dunno  as 
owt  else  matters."  It  did  not  matter  what  the  cost 
was  to  Anne.  "  When  you  used  to  come  home  to 
your  tea  from  Mr.  Travers'  office,  what  you  left  was 
always  good  enough  for  me,  and  I  can  stomach  your 
leavings  still." 

It  startled  Effie,  who  had  thought  herself  a 
specialist  in  sacrifice.  This  was  the  very  ferocity  of 
self-denial. 


282  THE  MARBECK  INN 

So  far,  tired  and  overstrained,  Effie  had  found 
peace  in  resigning  the  leadership  to  Anne,  but  here 
was  a  lead  she  could  not  follow.  It  was  not  that 
she  mistook  Anne's  purpose  or  doubted  her  capac- 
ity. Her  faith  in  Anne  was  young  but  adamantine, 
and  she  knew  that  if  Anne  replaced  Sam  with  Ada, 
and  made  herself  heir  to  the  Marbeck  plan,  she 
would  unquestionably  do  for  Ada  what  Sam  had 
undertaken  to  do.  But  the  thing  was  simply  not 
good  enough. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Branstone,  no,"  she  said  firmly. 

"  Get  off  with  you,"  said  Anne  impolitely.  "  I 
can  tackle  Ada  with  one  hand  tied  behind  my  back." 

"  Of  course,"  Sam  agreed,  "  you  could,  but  you 
are  not  going  to.  Ada's  my  job." 

"  I  can  be  pig-headed  as  well  as  you,  my  lad," 
Anne  menaced  him. 

"  It's  not  that,  mother." 

"  No,  it  isn't  that,"  said  Effle,  conceiving  perhaps 
that  it  was  time  for  her  to  enter  into  this  tragi- 
comedy of  rivalry  in  self-surrender.  "  Sana's  right. 
Ada  does  matter,  and  it  is  I  who  am  the  failure, 
I  who  have  broken  faith,  I  who  was  arrogant.  I 
thought  that  I  could  bear  a  torch,  and  I  can  only 
bear  a  child.  But  I  know  now  what  I  have  to  do. 
I  can  go  away.  I  can  disappear." 

It  seemed  to  Anne  that  this  was  serious  because 
obviously  it  was  a  way  out;  but  she  thought  it  a 
way  much  more  appalling  in  prospect  than  the  plan 
she  had  proposed  for  herself  of  "  taking  Ada  on." 
She  took  alarm.  In  another  than  Effie  it  might 
have  been  heroics,  but  Effie's  was  not  the  stuff  that 
mouths  bravado.  Anne  granted  that,  and  saw  a 
tragic  chasm  yawn.  She  signalled  her  alarm  to 


THE  NEW  BOOK  OF  MARTYRS         283 

Sam,  who  answered  it  with  a  glance  which  made 
appeal  to  her,  whilst  yielding  nothing  of  his  ob- 
stinacy. 

"  If  you  go  away,"  he  said,  "  my  mother  goes 
with  you.  I've  meant  that  from  the  first." 

Anne  nodded  without  enthusiasm.  Certainly 
that  was  a  solution  and  equally  not  the  solution. 
It  gave  Sam  to  Ada,  and  Effle,  it  appeared,  was  not 
seeing  it  as  a  solution  at  all.  There  were  strange 
possibilities,  Anne  thought,  in  this  young  woman, 
and  she  did  not  want  them  to  be  tested  too  far.  Effie 
was  not  a  talker,  and  when  she  said  a  thing  she  did 
not  overstate.  There  was  danger.  Well,  Anne  was 
forewarned,  and  addressed  herself  in  her  most 
humorous,  common-sense  manner  to  laugh  it  out  of 
court.  One  can  deal  with  danger  in  worse  ways 
than  to  apply  to  it  the  acid  —  ridicule. 

She  put  her  arms  akimbo  and  surveyed  Effie  and 
Sam  appraisingly.  "  I  dunno,"  she  said,  "  that 
there's  a  pin  to  choose  between  the  three  of  us  for 
chuckle-headed  foolishness.  We're  all  fancying 
ourselves  as  hard  as  we  can  for  martyrs  and  arrang- 
ing Ada's  life  for  her.  It  hasn't  struck  any  of  us 
yet  that  Ada's  likely  to  arrange  things  for  herself." 

And  if  Sam's  impulse  was  to  say  gloomily :  "  It 
isn't  likely  at  all,"  he  repressed  it  when  Anne's  eye 
caught  his,  and  said  instead,  "  That's  so,"  without 
knowing  why  he  said  it  and  without  believing  it. 

The  flicker  of  a  smile  crossed  Effle's  face ;  Sam  as 
conspirator  struck  her  as  crudely  humorous.  Anne 
saw  the  smile  and  understood,  but  brazened  it  out. 
"  Of  course  it's  so,  she  said,  defying  Effie.  "  Ada's 
a  poor  thing  of  a  woman,  but  she's  none  beyond 
having  a  mind  and  speaking  it.  I  was  always  one 


284  THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  take  the  short  road  out  of  trouble,  so  I'll  go  along 
to  Peter  Struggles'  now." 

"  Very  well,"  consented  Effie,  and  Anne  under- 
stood her  to  mean  that  the  crisis,  if  one  had  im- 
pended, was  postponed.  "  But,"  said  Effie,  "  of 
course,  I  saw." 

Which  was,  in  its  way,  a  challenge;  it  was,  at 
any  rate,  to  tell  Anne  that  Effie  knew  what  had  been 
suspected  of  her. 

Anne  met  it  as  a  challenge.    "  Well?  "  she  said. 

"  You  were  quite  wrong,  Mrs.  Branstone,"  said 
Effie  quietly.  "  I'm  not  a  coward." 

Anne  was  tying  her  bonnet-strings,  and  found  it 
convenient  to  look  down.  She  preferred,  just  then, 
not  to  meet  Effie's  eye.  "  I  know  I'm  over- 
anxious," she  mumbled  in  apology. 

"  And  there's  no  need,"  said  Effie,  a  little  cruel 
in  her  victory. 

To  Sam  the  conversation  seemed  to  have  slipped 
into  another  dimension.  He  hadn't  the  faintest 
idea  what  they  were  talking  about. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHOM   GOD   HATH   JOINED 

PETER  STRUGGLES  walked  into  his  tobacconist's  and 
put  his  snuff-box  on  the  counter.  There  was  no 
need  to  state  his  requirements;  in  fact,  he  had  not 
stated  them  for  many  years.  Shopman  and  cus- 
tomer understood  each  other  very  well,  and  busi- 
ness came  first;  then  if  there  was  inclination,  as 
there  usually  was,  talk  followed. 

To-day,  however,  the  shopman  gaped  at  Peter  in 
surprise,  and  made  a  half-turn  of  his  head,  so  that 
he  could  see  his  calendar.  Wednesday  was  Peter's 
day  for  buying  snuff  with  a  regularity  to  which 
time  had  given  the  force  of  a  tradition,  and  the 
tobacconist  had  even  the  habit  of  using  Peters  visit 
as  a  reminder  to  a  fallible  memory  that  he  must 
wind  his  clock.  The  calendar  confirmed  him  in  his 
belief  that  to-day  was  Thursday,  and  he  felt  sure 
that  Peter  had  been  in  as  usual  on  Wednesday. 

Peter  had.  Snuffing,  of  course,  is  a  wasteful 
habit  in  any  case,  and  a  shaking  hand  misses  the 
target  more  freely  than  a  steady  one;  but,  for  all 
that,  Peter,  in  his  mental  anguish,  had  consumed 
in  one  night  the  better  part  of  his  week's  supply  of 
snuff.  The  box  was  indubitably  empty.  He  had 
not  come  to  replenish  it  without  some  conscientious 
qualms  —  an  allowance  is  an  allowance  —  but  he 
felt  that  life  which  comprised  Ada  in  her  present 


286  THE  MARBECK  INN 

mood  and  did  not  comprise  snuff,  was  beyond  bear- 
ing. Ada  was,  it  seemed,  inevitable :  he  must  miti- 
gate Ada. 

"  The  usual,  if  you  please,  Thomas,"  he  unusually 
said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  filling  the  box. 
"  You've  had  a  little  accident?  " 

"  An  accident?  Oh !  "  Then  the  fitness  of  that 
guess  struck  him.  "  Yes,  Thomas,  a  little  accident. 
By  the  way,  do  you  know  anything  about  divorce?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  I  read  the  Sunday  Judge,"  Thomas 
replied  deprecatingly.  "  Very  human  subject,  sir, 
divorce." 

"You  find  it  so?" 

"  I  take  a  lot  of  satisfaction  in  reading  about  my 
sinful  fellow-creatures." 

"  Quite,  quite,"  said  Peter  vaguely,  and  went  out 
of  the  shop,  leaving  a  puzzled  salesman  behind  him. 
"  Forgot  to  pay,  and  all,"  thought  Thomas.  "  Not 
that  I'd  grudge  it  if  he  didn't  pay,  only  it's  not  like 
him.  He  looks  sadly  to-day.  The  old  boy's  break- 
ing up.  Him  and  divorce !  What  does  he  want  to 
worry  his  head  about  divorce  for?  " 

Peter  did  not  know  that  he  had  mentioned  divorce 
to  his  tobacconist.  It  would  have  shocked  him  if 
he  had  known.  He  spoke  unconsciously,  and  list- 
ened mechanically  to  the  man's  reply,  but  he  was, 
harrowingly,  "  worrying  his  head  "  about  divorce. 
He  took  snuff  in  the  street,  an  unheard-of  occur- 
rence, but  it  did  not  clear  his  aching  brain  of  the 
fateful  word  "  divorce." 

Ada  had  put  it  there  too  firmly  in  her  stupid  and 
invincible  malignity.  She  had  one  aim  —  to  do 
Sam  the  greatest  injury  she  could.  His  offence 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  287 

was  rank,  and  she  demanded  a  proportionate 
revenge. 

She  had  lived  as  a  spinster  for  marriage  and  as  a 
wife  by  marriage.  Marriage  was  not  a  duty,  but  a 
state  of  beatitude,  and  she  had  walked  in  the  faith 
of  her  grotesque  illusion  that  her  marriage  was 
singularly  blessed.  It  was  childless,  and  the  more 
blessed  for  that:  there  were  no  intruders  on  the 
perfect  union  of  man  and  wife.  It  was  illusion, 
and  a  wilder  perversion  of  the  truth  than  the  or- 
dinary self-deceiver  can  attain;  but  illusion  is  the 
breath  of  life,  and  she  had  fed  on  her  deception  till, 
like  a  drug-taker,  she  could  not  live  without  it. 
She  had  blazoned  it  abroad  in  a  hundred  drawing- 
rooms.  If  there  were  low-voiced  colloquies  of  this 
or  that  affair,  if  it  was  hinted  that  men  were  faith- 
less ever,  Ada  would  grow  superior  and  boast  the 
flawless  rectitude  of  Sam.  These  were  things 
which  happened  to  other  people,  who  very  likely 
deserved  them,  and  could  by  no  manner  of  means 
occur  to  her.  She  was  not  so  sunk  in  imbecility  as 
to  deny  that  they  did  happen,  and  to  people  who 
were,  nominally,  married;  but  they  were  unsound 
people,  insecurely  married.  There  was  a  funda- 
mental difference  between  their  marriages  and  hers. 
She  couldn't  explain;  it  was  too  obvious  for  ex- 
planation. She  was  married,  and  these  others, 
somehow,  were  married,  yet  not  married.  They 
had,  through  lack  of  merit,  stopped  short  of  the 
seventh  paradise  where  nothing  could  shake  con- 
summate bliss.  They  were  not  as  she  was. 

And  now  she  had  to  face  the  fact  that  the  im- 
possible had  happened  to  her,  and  not  only  had  it 
happened,  but  was  known  to  have  happened.  That 


288  THE  MARBECK  INN 

was  where  the  blow  struck  home.  She  had  publicly 
elaborated  her  case  of  absolute  conviction,  she  had 
vaunted  his  faithfulness,  the  cardinal  connubial ity 
of  Sam,  and  Miss  Entwistle  was  spreading  the  news 
that  she  had  been  a  doting  fool !  And  she  hadn't. 
She  had  not  doted  on  Sam,  she  had  not  been  in- 
fatuated with  her  husband,  but  with  the  idea  of  her 
husband  which  she  had  created  and  maintained. 
If  only  she  had  had  the  gumption  to  defy  Miss 
Entwistle!  If  only  she  had  concealed  her  belief 
in  the  story  as  successfully  as  she  had  hidden  the 
fact  that  Sam  had  a  separate  room !  She  had  been 
taken  by  surprise,  she  had  admitted  everything  by 
default,  and,  worse,  she  had  assured  Mrs.  Grandage 
that  she  would  never  see  Sam  again.  She  did  not 
doubt,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Grandage's  good-nature,  that 
this  little  sequel  to  the  story  of  Miss  Entwistle  was 
in  rapid  circulation. 

She  was  humiliated  publicly,  and,  as  she  saw  it, 
the  one  course  open  to  her  was  to  make  Sam  suffer 
a  humiliation  as  drastic  and  as  public  as  her  own. 
Though  it  hurt  her,  he  must  pay  for  it ;  though  she 
died,  he  must  be  punished  and,  sincerely,  she  ex- 
pected it  to  kill  her.  She  lived  in  a  garden  of  lies, 
and  life  without  the  illusion  of  her  marriage  would 
be  as  impossible  as  life  without  the  fragrance  of  her 
poisonous  flowers  to  Bappaccini's  daughter,  but  no 
matter  for  that.  Ada  must  be  revenged,  and 
divorce,  though  it  killed  her,  would  be  the  greatest 
injury  that  she  could  do  a  politician  and  a  pietistic 
publisher.  She  managed  to  square  the  circle,  too. 
She  was  to  die  and  make  a  murderer  of  him;  she 
was  to  ruin  his  business  and  make  a  bankrupt  of 
him ;  and  at  the  same  time  she  was  to  have  the  com- 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  289 

pensation  of  a  handsome  alimony.  But  perhaps 
vengeance  is  always  irrational,  and  that  is  why  it 
belongs  to  God. 

She  dinned  her  word  into  Peter's  ears  with  the 
merciless  reiteration  of  a  hurt  and  howling  child. 
It  was  her  first  word  and  her  last,  and  appeals  based 
on  religion  shattered  themselves  against  it  as  fruit- 
lessly as  the  appeal  to  reason.  What  she  had  said 
she  had  said :  and  she  had  said  "  Divorce."  Alter- 
natives did  not  exist. 

For  Peter,  divorce  ranged  itself  with  the  abomi- 
nations of  the  world,  a  man-made  legal  subterfuge 
to  evade  the  law  of  God.  There  might,  conceivably, 
be  occasions  when  divorce  was  to  be  condoned  as  the 
comparatively  little  wrong  which  did  a  great  right, 
and  he  tried  very  honestly  to  see  Ada's  as  one  of 
those  heroic  needs.  He  failed:  he  could  not  even 
see  that  Ada  was  hurt  in  soul,  or  in  anything  but 
pride.  She  was  in  a  mood,  not  of  spiritual  revolt, 
but  of  peevish  discontent. 

Small  wonder  that  he  snuffed  prodigiously  that 
night.  He  had  his  meed  of  suffering,  and  over- 
charged his  small  account  with  dreadful  self-re- 
proach. He,  not  Ada,  and  not  Sam,  was  responsible 
for  her  violence  and  for  the  cause  of  it ;  he  and  the 
books  upon  his  shelves;  reading,  his  darling  sin. 
He  blamed  himself  for  consenting  too  readily  to 
their  marriage.  Sain,  he  had  thought,  would  lead 
Ada:  on  what  grounds  had  he  thought  it?  What 
had  he  known  of  Sam's  leadership  —  a  prolix,  fluent 
boy  at  the  Concentrics?  He  had  exchanged  his 
daughter  for  peaceful,  solitary  evenings  with  his 
books  — "  Self-seeker !  "  he  thought  —  and  the  ex- 
change was  to  recoil  upon  him  now.  He  had  aban- 


290  THE  MARBECK  INN 

doned,  after  one  harsh,  undaughterly  repulse,  his 
attempt  to  show  her  that  wearing  a  wedding  ring 
was  not  the  whole  duty  of  woman  —  "  The  sin  of 
Pride,"  he  thought  —  and  had  returned  to  browse 
amongst  his  books.  Sam  seemed  a  good  fellow,  too. 
There  were  those  Classics,  and  the  texts,  and  the 
prosperous  old  age  of  Mr.  Carter,  who,  but  for 
Sam,  would  certainly  have  ended  his  days  in  the 
workhouse.  But,  failing  with  Ada,  he  ought  to 
have  appealed  to  Sam.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  ought  to  have 
taken  a  strong  line  with  Sam,  instead  of  letting 
Sam's  worldly  success  dazzle  him.  Sam  had 
seemed  too  big  for  Peter  Struggles  to  grapple  with 
—  the  sin  of  cowardice. 

Now  it  had  come  to  this!  Sam  had  broken  the 
seventh  commandment,  and  Ada  wished  to  forget 
the  words  which  Peter  had  read  over  them  when  he 
joined  their  right  hands  together,  and  said,  "  Those 
whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put 
asunder."  She  commanded  a  divorce,  and  it  was 
useless  for  Peter  to  insist,  out  of  his  small  store  of 
worldly  wisdom,  that  divorce  was  not  hers  to  com- 
mand. Sam  had  not  been  "  cruel." 

Her  fury  only  doubled.  Gone,  vanished  like  the 
snows  of  long  ago,  was  her  painted  idyll  of  domestic 
bliss. 

"  Cruel  ? "  she  said.  "  He's  never  been  any- 
thing but  cruel.  I'm  black  and  blue  with  his 
atrocities." 

Very  gently  he  tried  to  tell  her  that  he  did  not 
believe  it.  "  We  must  not  exaggerate,"  he  said. 

"  Exaggerate !  "  she  blazed.  "  Won't  you  believe 
me  till  you  see  it?  I'll  go  upstairs  and  strip. 
Come  when  I  call." 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  291 

He  soothed  her  down  at  that,  seeing  that  she  was 
capable  of  doing  herself  some  signal  injury  to  call 
in  evidence. 

"  Well,  then,"  she  said,  "  I  want  my  divorce :  get 
me  a  divorce."  That  was  her  simple  demand  of 
the  priest  who  married  her :  it  was  why  Peter  took, 
unrepentantly,  as  much  snuff  in  a  night  as  he  com- 
monly took  in  a  week,  and  why,  with  replenished 
stock,  he  continued  next  day  to  take  snuff  with  a 
lavish  hand. 

It  irritated  Ada,  though  she  had  always  associ- 
ated Peter  with  a  snuff-box,  and  the  untidiness  of 
the  habit  could  not  offend  her,  who  was  never  of- 
fended by  dirt,  as  any  mechanical  movement  in  an- 
other will  irritate  one  whose  nerves  are  ill-con- 
trolled. They  had  talked  themselves  to  a  stand- 
still, and  sat  in  moody  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
deplorable  sound  of  taking  snuff. 

She  looked  viciously  at  him.  "  If  you  do  that 
again,  I  shall  leave  the  room,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  sorry,  my  dear,"  he  said,  although,  really, 
it  was  a  pleasant  threat ;  but  when  he  did  it  again, 
it  was  through  pure  absent-mindedness,  and  he  was 
terribly  distressed  at  his  selfishness  when  Ada  flung 
out  of  the  room.  He  had  the  feelings  of  a  child 
put  in  a  corner  as  a  punishment,  and  to  relieve  them 
he  took  snuff  again.  She  heard  him  from  the  stair, 
and  heard  him  immediately  afterwards  poking  the 
fire;  and  she  thought  the  loathsome  self-absorption 
of  men  and  their  utter  callousness  to  the  anguish 
of  sensitive  women  were  proved  beyond  the  possi- 
bility of  doubt.  She  threw  herself  on  the  bed  in 
her  old  room,  alone  in  a  friendless  world.  .  .  .  The 
bed  had  a  warm  eiderdown. 


292  THE  MARBECK  INN 

•  \  ; 

Peter  poked  the  fire  because  it  needed  poking.  It 
often  did.  The  grate  was  one  of  those  labour-mak- 
ing contrivances  which  must  be  periodically  cleared 
of  ash  if  the  fire  is  to  burn  at  all,  and  it  was  rarely 
cleared.  The  woman  who  "  did  for  "  Peter,  did 
for  him  badly,  and  he  was  at  the  age  when  a  man 
needs  artificial  warmth :  a  gaunt,  shrunk  figure  as 
neglected  as  his  house.  Small  wonder  that,  apart 
from  his  attachment  to  St.  Mary's,  he  was  still  a 
curate.  They  had  considered  him  for  the  living 
when  his  vicar  moved  some  years  ago,  they  had  con- 
sidered the  little  circle  of  rich  parishioners  who 
made  an  oasis  of  civilization  in  that  savage  place, 
and  they  had  decided  that  Peter  lacked  the  social 
graces.  They  had  seen  his  mittens,  his  unbrushed 
coat  .  .  .  they  had  seen  him  eat  an  orange:  and 
he  remained  a  curate. 

The  fire  was  gone  beyond  the  reach  of  his  unsci- 
entific poking.  That,  too,  often  happened  with  a 
man  who  had  the  habit  of  standing  by  his  bookshelf 
reading  gluttonously,  with  his  austere  person 
frozen  into  a  grotesque  attitude,  some  book  which 
he  had  not  the  patience  to  carry  to  the  fireside :  and 
he  was  now  upon  his  knees  making  pathetically 
clumsy  efforts  to  revitalize  the  flame  when  his  in- 
efficient housekeeper  opened  the  door  and  showed 
Anne  into  the  room. 

It  eased  the  situation  for  them  both.  Anne  in- 
deed, was  nervous,  so  nervous  that  she  had  walked 
three  times  past  the  door  before  she  pulled  the  bell. 
She  had  a  befitting  awe  of  the  priest,  and  a  tremen- 
dous respect  for  the  man.  At  Effie's,  because  the 
circumstances  there  were  tense,  it  had  seemed  an 
easy  thing  to  come  to  Peter's,  but  she  had  needed  to 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  293 

call  on  her  reserves  of  courage  to  keep  her  place  on 
the  doorstep  after  she  had  rung  the  bell. 

Now,  however,  when  she  carne  into  the  room  and 
saw  what  he  was  at,  she  pushed  him  gently  aside, 
and  took  the  poker  from  his  hand.  She  nursed  the 
fire  skilfully;  she  was  with  familiar  things  which 
gave  her  back  her  confidence. 

As  to  the  trouble,  she  diagnosed  it  in  a  moment. 
"  That  woman  of  yours  is  a  slut,"  she  said.  "  And 
I'll  talk  to  her  before  I  go.  I  reckon  I've  the  right, 
me  and  you  being  connections  by  marriage." 

She  looked  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  and  saw 
that  he  did  not  recognize  her.  How,  indeed,  should 
he?  She  had  avoided  Ada's  wedding,  and  she  was 
one  of  a  large  flock :  a  face,  perhaps,  but  not  a  name 
to  him.  "  I'm  Anne  Branstone,"  she  explained. 
"  Sam's  mother ;  and  I'll  not  have  you  blaming  Sam 
for  this." 

"For  the  fire?"  asked  Peter  vaguely.  He  was 
rather  muddled  by  her  brisk  incursion. 

"  No,"  said  Anne,  almost  gaily ;  "  for  the  fat 
that's  in  the  fire." 

She  thought  she  had  his  measure  now  —  the 
sort  of  a  man  who  could  live  in  a  dirty  room  like 
this,  with  a  choked  ash-pan  and  fire-irons  with  the 
rust  thick  on  them.  But  Peter  was  greater  than 
that.  She  judged  him  by  those  of  his  surround- 
ings which  had  significance  for  her,  and  not  by 
books  which  expressed  everything  for  him  and 
nothing  for  her. 

"  Mrs.  Branstone ! "  he  said,  as  if  realizing  now 
with  whom  he  had  to  deal. 

"  Sam's  mother,"  she  repeated,  rising  from  a 
healthy  fire ;  "  and  I've  told  you  where  not  to  put 


294  THE  MARBECK  INN 

the  blame.  You  can,  maybe,  think  yourself  of  the 
right  place  to  put  it." 

"  Yes,"  he  surprised  her  by  saying;  "  on  me." 

"  You !  Oh,  if  you  want  to  go  to  the  back  of  be- 
hind, you  can  blame  Adam  and  Eve.  But  that's 
not  what  I  meant." 

"  On  me,"  he  said  again.  "  I  consented  to  this 
marriage.  I  sanctioned  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Anne,  "  I've  not  come  here  to  crow, 
but  I've  the  advantage  of  you  in  that.  I  did  not 
consent,"  and  her  eye  strayed  involuntarily  to  a 
scar  on  her  hand,  memorial  of  the  form  of  her  dis- 
sent. "  I  didn't  consent  because  I  knew  they 
weren't  in  love.  I  told  Sam  I  knew  it." 

"  Then,"  said  Peter,  "  you  are  worthier  than  I 
am,  Mrs.  Branstone." 

"  Because  I  knew  love  matters?  There's  nowt 
so  wonderful  in  knowing  that,  and  nowt  so  crafty 
in  foreseeing  that  a  marriage  where  there  is  no 
love  is  marred  from  start  to  finish." 

"  Love  matters,"  he  agreed.  "  It  matters  all,  for 
God  is  love." 

"  We'll  come  to  an  agreement,  you  and  me,"  she 
said  appreciatively.  "  We've  the  same  mind  about 
the  root  of  things." 

"  This  is  a  terrible  business,  Mrs.  Branstone." 

"  I'm  none  denying  it.  It's  a  terrible  thing  for  a 
man  and  wife  to  live  together  when  love's  not  a 
lodger  in  the  house;  it's  wrong,  and  the  worst  of 
wrong  is  that  it  won't  stay  single.  Wrong's  got  to 
breed.  But,  there,"  she  finished  briskly,  '  I'm  tell- 
ing you  what  you  know,  and  when  all's  said,  there's 
nowt  so  bad  that  it's  past  mending." 

"  Ada  wants  a  divorce,"  said  Peter,  and  a  sudden 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  295 

glint  of  triumph  came  into  Anne's  eye,  only  to  van- 
ish as  quickly  as  it  came.  She  had  said,  without 
believing  it,  that  Ada  might  make  arrangements, 
and  this  was  to  arrange  indeed.  It  unmade  the 
hollow  marriage,  it  was  a  solution  which  really 
solved,  it  was  a  clean  cut;  and  she  wanted  to  glor- 
ify Ada,  who  was  proving  at  the  eleventh  hour  that 
she  had  the  saving  grace  of  common  sense. 

Peter  did  a  curious  thing.  He  rose  and  took  a 
book  haphazard  from  his  shelf,  came  back  to  his 
chair  and  opened  the  book.  He  did  not  read  it,  and 
he  was  not  being  rude,  but  this  was  an  agitation 
beyond  the  reach  of  snuff.  He  tried  to  calm  him- 
self by  resting  his  eyes  on  print. 

Anne  was  not  practised  in  the  ways  of  bookish 
men,  but,  by  strange  insight,  understood  that  Peter 
had  gone  to  a  book  much  as  she  went  to  his  grate,  to 
be  soothed  by  its  familiarity,  and  her  rejoicing  at 
his  words  came  to  an  abrupt  end.  His  action 
brought  home  to  her,  more  than  his  horror-struck 
tone,  whose  significance  she  almost  missed  in  her 
joy  at  Ada's  practical  solution,  his  loathing  of  di- 
vorce: and  it  seemed  to  her,  quite  suddenly,  that 
what  mattered  most  in  all  this  business  was  that 
Peter  should  be  happy  about  it. 

It  mattered  more  than  Sam  and  Ada,  and  even 
more  than  Effie,  that  Peter,  who  was,  so  to  speak, 
an  old  and  sleeping  partner,  should  be  satisfied  by 
their  solution.  She  did  not  care  if  this  was  to  per- 
vert the  values:  the  remnant  of  Peter  Struggles' 
life  was  of  more  importance  than  the  young  lives  of 
the  active  members  of  the  firm.  And  because  she 
had  a  practical  mind,  and  believed  that  one  is  happy 
in  soul  only  when  one  is  first  happy  in  body,  she  was 


296  THE  MARBECK  INN 

already  thinking  past  their  present  problem:  she 
was  considering  how  the  slut  in  Peter's  kitchen 
could  be  replaced  by  her  own  housewifely  self. 

She  resolutely  consigned  that  thought  to  the  fu- 
ture, and  returned  to  the  question  of  to-day.  Ada, 
wonderfully,  wanted  a  divorce:  but  Anne  required 
that  Peter^should  be  happy  about  it,  and  she  per- 
ceived the  incompatibility.  She  saw  that  juxtapo- 
sition could  hardly  be  more  crude.  He  was  a 
priest,  the  priest  who  married  them,  and  she 
wanted  him  to  acquiesce  contentedly  in  their  di- 
vorce. 

"  Wants  a  divorce,  does  she?  "  she  said.  "  Well, 
there's  more  than  Ada  to  be  thought  of." 

"  There  is,  indeed,"  said  Peter,  thinking  of  his 
church. 

"  There's  you,"  said  Anne,  thinking  of  him.  "  If 
she  gets  one,  does  she  plant  herself  on  you  again?  " 

He  supposed  so,  unable  to  disguise  his  depression 
at  the  prospect. 

"  Aye,"  she  rubbed  it  in,  "  you  were  well  rid  of 
Ada  once.  It's  not  in  human  nature  to  want  her 
back  again."  She  was  thinking  singly  of  his  com- 
fort. 

Peter,  on  his  part,  took  her  to  imply  that  if  he 
opposed  a  divorce  it  was  for  interested  motives,  that 
he  could  continue  to  be  "  well  rid  of  Ada."  He  saw 
with  dismay  that  it  was  an  interpretation  which 
could  reasonably  be  put  on  any  opposition  from 
him.  He  thought,  in  his  humility,  that  it  was  a 
reasonable  interpretation,  whereas,  Peter  being 
Peter,  it  was  a  ludicrously  unjust  interpretation, 
and,  of  course,  Anne  did  not  make  it.  She  had  only 
stated  as  a  fact  that  Ada  at  home  prejudiced  her 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  297 

father's  comfort:  and  the  comfort  of  Ada's  father 
had  become  a  matter  which  touched  Anne  Bran- 
stone  nearly. 

"  And  there  are  other  people,  too.  There's 
Sam,"  she  went  on,  "  and  he  is  a  desperate  bad  case. 
He  has  no  love  for  Ada.  He's  hoisted  his  notion  of 
his  duty  higher  than  a.living  love.  He  wants  Ada 
to  come  back." 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say,"  mourned  Peter,  "  that  the 
more  he  wants  it,  the  less  likely  she  is  to  go." 

She  tried  not  to  exult  too  openly  at  that.  "  And 
then,"  she  said,  "  there's  Effie." 

"  Effie !  "     He  spoke  in  scandalized  protest. 

"  Aye,  that's  her  name,  and  yon's  just  the  tone  of 
voice  I  had  myself  when  I  first  heard  of  her.  I 
want  you  to  see  Effie." 

"  Never !  "  said  Peter,  and  for  a  mild  man  his 
bitterness  was  remarkable. 

"  Then  I  must  show  her  to  you,"  said  Anne  plac- 
idly, "  and  that'll  mean  going  back  a  bit  and  show- 
ing you  other  things  as  well.  It'll  mean,"  and 
she  very  much  regretted  it,  "  showing  you  this." 
She  held  out  her  hand  and  pointed  to  the  scar. 
"  When  Sam  told  me  he  wanted  to  marry  Ada,  I 
came  to  see  her.  I  saw  what  I  saw,  and  I  told  him 
she'd  be  the  ruin  of  him.  He  didn't  believe  me, 
and  I  tried  to  make  him  see  I  meant  it.  I  put  my 
hand  into  the  fire,  and  I  thought  to  keep  it  there 
till  he  agreed  with  me,  but  he's  stronger  in  the  arm 
than  me,  and  he  got  me  away."  She  spoke  without 
passion,  in  simple  narrative  which  Peter  found  im- 
pressed him  deeply.  "  So  I  left  him  and  earned  my 
living,  and  all  that.  Sam  married  her,  and  the 
ruin's  come,  but  it's  not  come  suddenly.  It's  been 


298  THE  MARBECK  INN 

coining  all  the  time.  I'd  date  it  back,"  she  re- 
flected, "  to  the  day  when  he  fooled  you  about  the 
*  Social  Evil '  pamphlet.  He  did  that  because  he 
wanted  a  rich  husband  for  Ada." 

Peter  had  nothing  to  say.  If  he  had  not  known 
before  that  Sam  had  "  fooled "  him,  he  did  not 
doubt  it  now. 

"  And  it  grew  from  that.  He's  made  money  be- 
cause Ada  wanted  money,  and  after  that  it  grew  to 
be  a  bad  habit.  He  made  it  then  by  writing  lies 
about  himself  in  the  papers,  and  I  don't  know  how 
he's  done  it  since  then,  except  that  it  has  been  by 
more  lies.  He  began  to  fancy  himself  at  politics. 
He  wanted  to  be  a  crowing  cock,  and  it  didn't  mat- 
ter if  he  crowed  on  a  dung-heap  so  long  as  he 
crowed.  And  Ada  didn't  care.  He  gave  her 
money,  and  she  didn't  care.  She  didn't  love,  and 
he  didn't  love,  and  there's  a  thing  you  said  just  now 
that  I'll  remind  you  of.  You  said  God's  love.  I'll 
leave  it  to  you  to  name  what  it  is  when  there  isn't 
love. 

"  And  then  love  came  to  Sam.  Effie  came,  and 
you  say  that  God  is  love.  Sam  put  it  to  me  in  an- 
other way.  He  said  he'd  found  salvation.  Well, 
it's  a  big  word,  and  I  dunno.  But  I  do  know  he 
found  love  and  it  changed  him.  He's  done  with 
politics,  and  he's  done  with  crowing  and  with 
riches,  too.  Effie  did  that  by  the  power  of  love,  and 
there's  another  thing  she  did,  that's  marked  yon 
lass  for  me  as  the  finest,  strangest  woman  in  the 
width  of  the  world.  She  gave  him  up  and  sent  him 
back  to  Ada.  Well,  I've  heard  of  sacrifice  before, 
and  I've  done  a  bit  that  way  myself,  but  give  up  a 
man  she  loved  and  teach  him  how  to  make  a  woman 


WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  299 

of  his  wife,  and  send  him  home  to  do  it  —  it's  more 
than  I  can  rise  to.  And  that  is  Effie  Mannering. 

"  He  went  home  and  he  tried,  and  Ada  laughed 
at  him.  She  couldn't  understand :  there  wasn't  the 
one  thing  there  that  could  make  her  understand: 
there  wasn't  love.  And  he  gave  up  his  politics  that 
night  she  laughed  at  him,  to  leave  himself  free  to 
tackle  Ada.  Now  Ada's  left  him,  and  there's  sum- 
mat  else  turned  up  as  well.  You  can  guess."  He 
looked  up  sharply.  "  Aye,  that's  it,  and  the  rum 
thing  is  that  it  surprised  them  both.  Their  love's 
that  sort  of  love,  and  I  reckon  there  are  folk  would 
call  it  careless  of  them.  I  would  myself  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  aye,  and  ninety-nine  in  a  hundred,  but 
not  this  case.  This  wasn't  a  case  for  care ;  it  was  a 
case  of  love.  But  a  baby's  coming  to  Effie,  and  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  none  will  ever  come  to 
Ada.  I've  finished  telling  you  about  Effie  now." 

There  was  a  long  pau,se  and  it  seemed  several 
times  that  Peter  was  about  to  break  it,  and  each 
time  changed  his  mind.  All  that  he  finally  said  in 
comment  on  Effie  was,  "  A  lawless  woman,"  and  it 
might  have  been  deduced  from  his  tone  that  he  did 
not  condemn,  if  he  could  not,  confessedly,  admire. 

"  Aye,  lawless,"  Anne  agreed,  "  but  there's  a  law 
of  lawless  women  and  she  has  not  obeyed  it.  She's 
not  a  breaker.  She's  a  maker." 

Peter  bowed  his  head.  Perhaps  he  did  not  wish 
Anne  to  see  what  was  written  in  his  face.  And  he 
lacked  conviction  when  he  tried  to  speak  again. 
"  Whom  God  hath  joined  — "  he  began. 

"  But  God,"  Anne  said,  "  is  love." 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  a  despairing  gesture  of 
surrender.  "  I  deserve  to  be  unfrocked  for  this," 


I 

300  THE  MARBECK  INN 

he  said,  but  he  closed  the  book  on  his  knee  and  took 
snuff  violently.  It  marked  the  passing  of  a  crisis. 
As  for  Anne,  there  mingled  with  her  satisfaction 
at  his  consent  a  keen  despondency  at  his  unhappi- 
ness.  She  had  both  lost  and  won,  and  Anne  took 
little  pleasure  in  a  mixed  victory.  She  had  not 
finished  yet  with  Peter  Struggles. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SNOW   ON   THE   PELLS 

LIFE  is  still  greater  than  machines.  Machines  ac- 
complish marvels  and  very  wonderfully  continue  to 
accomplish  them,  but  life  refuses  the  mechanical. 
It  was  man,  and  not  nature,  who  invented  the 
wheel,  and  life  does  not  revolve  upon  an  axle.  Life 
will  not  repeat  itself :  and  it  can  excel  itself. 

They  had  not  thought,  when  they  came  back  to 
Marbeek  at  the  turn  of  the  year,  that  Marbeck 
could  be  better  than  before.  They  came  hoping, 
they  said,  to  recapture  the  old  emotions,  and 
brought  Anne  with  them  to  show  her  their  fairy- 
land. They  did  not  recapture  the  old  emotions,  be- 
cause they  were  young  emotions,  a  ferment  like 
youth  itself,  and  things  were  settled  now.  They 
seemed  to  look  back  from  their  equable  security  to 
a  wild  infancy  of  their  emotion,  a  fumbling,  fren- 
zied, awkward  age  of  love.  Of  course  they  looked 
back  happily,  from  a  plaeejwhere  things  were  happy 
and  serene  to  one  where  things  were  happy  and  im- 
petuous. The  Dale  was  full  of  wonder,  with  a  won- 
der which  now  belonged  unerringly  to  fact  and  had 
mellowed  in  reality. 

For  Anne,  it  was  a  pretty  place,  but  "  lonesome," 
and,  amazingly  to  them,  she  chafed  to  leave  it. 
Anne  did  not  suffer  holidays  gladly. 

They  had  extolled  Anne,  they  had  not  thought  it 


302  THE  MARBECK  INN 

credible  that  she  should  fail  at  anything,  and  it 
ruffled  them  dsturbingly  to  find  her  fail  at  this. 
They  had  planned  eagerly  and,  indeed,  generously 
to  bring  her  with  them  to  Marbeck  —  generously, 
because  they  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  even  Anne, 
owe  her  what  they  did  and  be  she  what  she  might, 
was  an  intruder.  But  they  wanted  her  to  share 
with  them  their  wonderland.  Marbeck  was  theirs, 
theirs  intimately  and  alone,  their  holy  place,  and 
they  could  think  of  nothing  finer,  nothing  which 
came  more  nearly  to  her  deserts  of  them,  than  to 
initiate  her  to  their  secret  worship. 

They  made  her  free  of  Marbeck,  relived  their 
week  for  her  as  much  as  for  themselves,  showed  her 
where  this  and  that  dear  folly  happened,  took  her 
to  view-points  whence  she  could  see  the  tops  of 
hills  they  climbed,  using  the  landscape  as  the 
ground-plan  of  an  ecstasy  which  they  invited  her 
to  share,  and  were  discomposed  to  find  that  Anne, 
plainly  straining  enthusiasm  in  their  behalf,  could 
only  say  of  Marbeck,  their  Marbeck,  "  I'm  sure  it's 
very  nice." 

She  damned  with  faint  praise  their  enchanted 
valley  in  whose  every  tree  they  took  by  now  as  fierce 
a  joy  as  if  they  had  created  it,  and  in  despair  they 
dragged  her,  as  a  last  hope,  to  the  very  Holy  of 
their  holies,  the  top  of  Hartle  Pike.  If  she  failed 
them  there,  if  she  did  not  see  the  beauty  and  the 
grace,  the  penetrating  significance  and  the  absolute 
sanctity  of  Hartle  Pike,  then  her  greatness  was  lop- 
sided, resulting,  like  a  show  chrysanthemum,  from 
the  atrophy  of  other  possibilities. 

It  was  a  great  day  for  the  fells,  when  a  frozen 
surface  crushed  elastically  underfoot  and  kept  one 


SNOW  ON  THE  FELLS 

drysliod  anywhere,  and  they  walked  in  frosty,  sun- 
kissed  air,  keenly  exhilarating  yet  spicily  warm. 
Snow  capped  the  greater  heights  and  seemed  to 
clarify  an  atmosphere  already  clear,  but  the  dales 
were  free  of  snow  and  never  more  fit  for  walking 
than  now  when  their  boggy  surface  was  dried  up 
and  roughened  to  the  tread  by  crisp,  granulated 
particles  of  frost. 

Anne  granted  to  herself  that  if  one  must  take  a 
holiday,  this  generous  activity  made  nearly  a  venial 
matter  of  it.  To  climb  these  slopes  was  almost  as 
satisfying  to  her  body  as  to  wash  a  long  flight  of 
steps,  and  she  reached  the  top  feeling  as  pleasantly 
tired  as  if  she  had  done  half  a  day's  charring. 

Still,  she  hadn't  charred,  and  there  was  in  fact 
nothing  which  needed  charring,  nothing  but  a  clean- 
liness which  positively  irritated  her.  She  itched  to 
be  doing  something  and  there  was  manifestly  noth- 
ing to  do  except  to  enjoy  herself.  And  if  Anne 
Branstone  was  not  doing  a  job,  she  liked,  at  any 
rate,  to  know  that  her  next  job  was  around  the  cor- 
ner. She  began,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  to  feel 
a  friendliness  towards  dirt.  In  the  midst  of  this 
sprawling  insolence  of  triumphant  cleanliness,  she 
hankered  for  a  little  humanizing  soot.  She  could 
have  loved  her  life-long  enemy,  and  he  did  not  ap- 
pear ...  it  was  not  a  bit  like  Manchester. 

Far  to  the  west,  beyond  a  barrier  of  gleaming 
snow,  she  saw  a  murky  cloud  of  smoke  where  the 
foul  boot  of  industrialism  stamps  on  the  Lakeland 
Coast  —  a  message  and  a  call.  It  spoke  to  her  of 
natural  dirt  in  this  great  waste  of  unstained  pur- 
ity; it  made  her  sick  for  home  and  the  thing  she 
had  to  do. 


304  THE  MARBECK  INN 

Effle  and  Sam  stood  gazing  at  the  hills,  spell- 
bound by  loveliness,  and  when  they  tore  their  danc- 
ing eyes  away  it  was  to  look  into  each  other's. 
They  had  no  need  of  words:  their  eyes  exulted  in 
the  burnished  splendour  of  the  scene,  and  with  a 
doubled  exultation  each  in  the  other's  joy.  Then 
Sam  turned  hopefully  to  Anne  and  saw  that  she 
was  looking  with  a  rapt  intensity  at  the  west.  At 
last,  it  seemed,  the  hills  had  touched  her. 

"  Where's  yon?  "  she  asked,  "  yon  smoke?  " 

His  face  fell  as  he  told  her,  but  he  saw  that  this 
explained  Anne's  failure.  She  had  not  relished 
Marbeck  because  she  had  not  seen  it.  She  had  not 
been  looking  at  Marbeck,  but  all  the  while  at  some- 
thing else. 

And  why,  he  questioned,  why,  now  that  things 
had  so  admirably  arranged  themselves,  must  Anne 
still  live  in  thought  in  Manchester?  There  seemed 
to  him  to  be  no  flaw,  nothing  which  could  conceiv- 
ably distract  her  attention,  nothing  which  had  not 
with  genial  finality  been  neatly  finished  off.  Of 
course  they  had  stupid  legal  business  to  come,  but 
that  was  well  ahead  and,  in  any  case,  was  not  to 
worry  them. 

She  could  not,  surely,  be  troubling  about  Ada. 
It  was  he  who  had  made  the  trouble  there,  insisting 
that  Ada  was  "  his  job." 

He  insisted  to  the  point  of  almost  literally  forc- 
ing himself  upon  her  in  Peter  Struggles'  house,  and 
remembered  now  with  a  twinge  that  desolating  in- 
terview, if  interview  it  could  be  called,  and  its  lib- 
erating end;  how  Ada  had  looked  at  him,  and  an- 
swered nothing  to  his  abject  and  passionate  appeals 
( he  wondered  how  he  could  have  made  them,  but  he 


SNOW  ON  THE  FELLS  305 

was  despairingly  sincere)  :  how  he  had  pleaded  and 
apologized  for  the  past  and  supplicated  for  the  fu- 
ture, all  in  the  mastering  grip  of  his  Marbeck 
faith,  and  how  she  had  kept  silent  till  she  turned  on 
Peter  and  told  him  she  must  leave  a  house  which 
did  not  shelter  her  from  the  deadly  insult  of  this 
man's  presence.  He  remembered  the  good  woman, 
Mrs.  Grandage,  who  had  carried  Ada  to  a  Hydro 
at  Southport,  and  wrote  to  Peter  that  Ada  seemed 
quite  happy  there,  "  nursing  her  grievance  like  a 
child,"  and  was  looking  for  a  house.  He  had  found 
something  mystifying  about  the  intervention  of 
Mrs.  Grandage :  good  nature  fortified  by  a  bad  con- 
science was  his  attempt  to  explain  her  attitude,  but 
what  emerged  clearly  from  the  letters  she  wrote  to 
Peter  was  that  Ada  had  no  intention  of  returning 
to  Manchester :  and  when  he  thought  of  Southport, 
he  realized  its  quintessential  Tightness  as  her  home. 
He  had  not  shirked  his  job ;  he  had  eaten  dirt  before 
her  in  his  anxiety  to  do  his  job;  and  he  was  not 
allowed.  What  she  was  she  must  remain,  and 
Southport  seemed  the  aptest  place  for  her. 
"  Only,"  as  Mrs.  Grandage  wrote,  "  she  must  have 
money." 

That  was  not  difficult,  and  the  money  might  have 
come  in  many  ways:  it  came  actually  in  a  way 
which  Effie  hated  and  Sam  thought  exquisitely 
right.  It  came  through  Stewart,  that  faithful  ally 
of  the  publishing  business  in  its  early  days. 

Dubby  was  in  Effie's  room,  "  which  is  where," 
he  said,  "your  brother  has  a  right  to  be." 

"  You  keep  that  up,"  she  smiled. 

"  Is  the  poor  dog  to  get  none?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  is  to  have  whatever  he  wants,"  she  said. 


306  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  —  that's  going,"  he  completed  her  sentence. 

"  Yes,"  said  Effie,  not  smiling  now,  and  kissed 
him  very  simply  to  seal  his  brotherhood. 

He  stood  silent  for  a  nroment,  then,  with  a  jerk 
of  his  head  he,  so  to  speak,  cut  his  loss  and  turned 
to  her  with  the  frank  confidence  of  their  settled 
relationship.  "  Now  we  can  talk,"  he  said.  "  Tell 
me  about  old  Sam.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
him?  And  with  his  business?  " 

She  evaded  his  first  question.  "  The  business? 
Oh,  he'll  sell  that." 

"  Then  let  me  buy." 

"  You !     Oh !  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  know  what  I  think  of  it." 

"  I'm  only  the  dog,  my  dear.  Do  you  know  any 
Greek?  There's  a  connection  between  being  a  dog 
and  being  a  cynic.  In  certain  circumstances,  I'd 
have  thought  with  you  to  the  crack  of  doom,  but 
your  brother's  a  cynic." 

"  I  see,"  said  Effie  sadly.  "  But  he  will  always 
be  my  brother,  Dubby." 

"  Thanks,  Effie,"  he  said.  "  That  will  keep  me 
on  the  sweeter  side  of  currishness.  But  a  dog 
wants  meat.  You'll  tell  Sam  I'm  to  have  the  first 
refusal  of  that  business.  I'll  scrape  a  syndicate  to- 
gether in  a  week." 

So  the  Stewart  Publishing  Syndicate,  which  now 
has  dashing  offices  near  Covent  Garden,  came  to 
birth  and  Ada  got  her  money.  When  Sam  tried  to 
tell  Effie  that  his  investments  outside  the  business 
were  ridiculously  small,  she  had  refused  to  be  im- 
pressed. 

"  It's  not  the  means  of  life  that  matters,  Sam. 


SNOW  ON  THE  FELLS  307 

It's  living :  it's  the  quality  of  life :  it's  what  we  do 
with  life,"  she  said,  and  Ada  got  the  means. 

"  She'll  be  married  in  a  year  to  a  man  from  Liver- 
pool," said  Dubby,  whe*n  he  heard. 

"Why  Liverpool?"  asked  Sam,  and  Dubby 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  thought  Sam's  ques- 
tion stupid. 

"  By  the  way,  Sam,"  Dubby  said,  "  have  you  and 
Effie  any  plans?" 

"  No,"  said  Effie,  when  Sam  hesitated,  but  a 
brother's  curiosity  was  not  to  be  stifled  like  that, 
and  Sam's  face  told  her,  too,  how  he  had  hung  on 
her  reply.  She  resented  his  anxiety,  the  proof  that 
he  had  not  dropped  his  calculating  habit.  They 
had  not  discussed  the  question  of  plans  because  she 
held  there  was  no  question  to  discuss,  and  Sam, 
she  thought,  deserved  a  little  punishment  for  think- 
ing otherwise.  "  I  suppose,"  she  went  on,  "  we 
shall  stay  in  Manchester  and  face  the  music." 

"Oh!"  said  Sam  blankly. 

"  Well,  we  must  give  Mr.  Verity  his  revenge,"  she 
teased. 

"  But  it  can't  hurt  me  now  I'm  out  of  politics," 
he  said,  confessing  by  his  tone  that  it  would  hurt 
him  very  much. 

"  It  will  please  him,  though,"  she  said. 

"  I'd  .  .  .  I'd  thought  of  going  to  America,"  he 
ventured. 

"  America !  "  scoffed  Dubby.  "  0  sancta  simplic- 
itas!  America's  not  El  Dorado,  Sam.  El  Dora- 
do's been  found.  I'd  even  say  it's  been  found  out." 

"  There  are  big  things  in  America,"  Sam  defended 
his  idea. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Dubby,"  said  Effie;  silenc- 


308  THE  MARBECK  INN 

ing  him,  "  we  shall  go  to  Marbeck  for  a  little  while. 
It's  a  good  place  to  begin  from." 

With  that  a  great  contentment  came  to  Sam. 
They  were  to  go  to  Marbeck ;  they  were  to  begin ; 
and  he  no  longer  questioned  what.  He  made  no 
hard  and  fast  surrender  of  his  will,  but  recognized 
the  fact,  not  for  the  first  time,  that  when  Effie  made 
a  decision  it  had  a  shining  Tightness.  Perhaps  she 
had  retreated  from  her  first  decision  of  Marbeck, 
but,  if  so,  Anne  helping  him,  he  had-  retreated  with 
her;  and  they  went  to  Marbeck  now,  not  to  end, 
but  to  begin,  and  to  begin  together. 

Reflecting  on  it  all,  he  could  not  see  the  blemish. 
He  couldn't,  for  the  life  of  him,  make  out  why  Anne 
was  not  content. 

He  half  explained  the  valley's  failure  to  enchant 
her  when  he  perceived  that  she  had  not  really  looked 
at  it.  At  what,  then,  could  she  be  looking?  And 
how  could  she,  how  in  the  name  of  beauty  was  it 
possible  for  anyone  to  pick  out  from  all  that  noble 
amphitheatre  of  the  hills  the  one  'smoke-clouded 
spot? 

"  Mother,"  he  cried  in  downright  exasperation, 
"  aren't  you  happy  here?  " 

"  I'd  be  happier  in  Manchester,"  she  said.  "  Yon 
smoke's  too  far  away  to  taste.  Aye,  I  think  I'll 
leave  you  here  and  go  to-day." 

"  But  you're  not  going  back  to  Madge's  —  to  the 
work  in  other  people's  houses,  I  mean.  That's 
surely  over  now." 

"  Maybe." 

"  Mother,  you've  done  with  work." 

She  eyed  him  grimly.  "Not  till  I'm  dead,  my 
lad,"  she  said. 


SNOW  ON  THE  FELLS  309 

"Why  won't  you  tell  me  what  you're  thinking 
of?" 

"  I'm  thinking,"  she  said,  "  of  yon  slut  in  Peter 
Struggles'  kitchen.  I'll  have  her  out  of  that  to- 
morrow." 

He  glanced  at  Effie,  and  then  looked  again.  He 
fancied  he  had  surprised  a  little  smile  on  Effie's 
face  and  looked  twice  to  make  sure.  And  when  he 
looked  he  found  that  Effle  was  looking  back  at  him 
in  the  wise,  humorous  way  that  he  had  come  to 
know  so  well.  "  Don't  you  see?  "  was  what  she 
seemed  to  say. 

And  he  did  see.  He  saw  that  it  was  not  Man- 
chester, but  a  man  in  Manchester;  not  the  woman 
in  Peter  Struggles'  kitchen,  but  the  man  in  Peter's 
parlour  who  interrupted  his  mother's  vision  of  the 
Mar-beck  hills.  She  lost  their  beauty  in  a  greater 
beauty  of  her  own. 

"  And  don't  be  incredulous,"  said  Effie's  eyes. 

She  turned  to  Anne.  "  We'll  go  down  to  the  Inn 
at  once,"  she  said,  "  and  you  shall  catch  the  train 
this  afternoon." 

A  quick  look  passed  from  Anne  to  Effie,  from 
which  they  both  excluded  Sam.  It  almost  seemed 
that  Anne  was  asking  Effie  for  support,  and  that 
Effie  understood  and  nodded  imperceptibly.  And 
if  Anne  had  seriously  doubted,  her  doubts  were 
dissipated  by  a  look  which  told  her  that,  where  she 
was  concerned,  Effie  believed  in  the  feasibility  of 
anything. 

Nothing  at  Marbeck  became  Anne  Branstone 
like  her  leaving  it.  "  Why,  mother,  how  young  you 
look !  "  he  cried  when  she  came  downstairs  to  the 
trap. 


310  THE  MARBECK  INN 

"  It's  just  as  well,"  said  Anne,  meeting  Effie's  eye 
over  his  shoulder. 

Then,  after  she  had  gone,  and  so  pat  upon  her 
going  as  to  be  hardly  decent,  life  flamed  for  them 
ungrudgingly.  There  was  something  quite  impu- 
dently callous  about  the  haste  of  it,  as  if  life  pulled 
a  face  behind  the  older  generation  and  turned  light- 
heartedly  to  burn  more  ardently  for  them.  But 
Anne,  and  they  knew  it,  would  not  have  thanked 
them  to  be  sorry  for  her.  She  had  gone  to  Peter 
Struggles,  who  needed  her. 

They  could  not  now  resume  the  half  amphibious 
life  of  their  autumn  days,  but  the  air  itself  from 
the  snow-clad  fells  had  all  the  stimulation  of  a 
bath.  It  cleansed  and  healed  by  touch  and  height- 
ened their  well-being  till  they  moved  in  radiant  ex- 
hilaration, now  clamant  at  the  joy  of  it,  now  dumb 
before  its  wonder. 

Happy  themselves,  they  were  the  cause  of  happi- 
ness in  others,  not  self-contained  in  joy,  but  effer- 
vescing to  the  old  black-beamed  kitchen  of  the  Mar- 
beck  Inn.  They  had,  as  Sam  cannily  observed,  the 
advantages  of  a  private  room  at  an  hotel  without 
paying  for  it  —  and  abrogated  them.  In  the  au- 
tumn they  had  isolated  their  joy  from  others :  now 
it  brimmed  from  them  and  affected  all  the  people  of 
the  Inn,  making  the  long  nights  short.  Good  lis- 
teners were  a  godsend  to  the  Dale  in  winter,  and 
the  shepherds,  dropping  from  heaven  knew  how  far, 
found  a  rare  satisfaction  in  telling  this  attentive 
audience  tales  of  the  fells,  of  sheep  wanderers  that 
strayed  as  wide  afield  as  Derbyshire,  of  dogs  that 
ran  amok  and  ravaged  the  flocks  they  ought  to  tend, 
of  the  epic  Beast  of  Ennerdale,  of  the  legends  of 


SNOW  ON  THE  FELLS  311 

John  Peel  and  all  the  sagas  of  the  Lakes.  It 
needed  little  to  make  these  dalesmen  happy,  noth- 
ing beyond  a  patient  ear  for  a  slow,  rambling  nar- 
rative —  a  long  chain  strung  with  pearls  of  racy 
episode  —  or  an  hour  of  Effie  at  the  piano,  when 
the  dalesmen  disappointed  her  by  knowing  no  bal- 
lads, but  having,  instead,  a  sound  acquaintance 
with  the  latest  music-hall  songs  stacked  in  the  cup- 
board at  the  Inn.  In  here,  in  the  smoke  room, 
they  were  knowing  wags,  in  the  kitchen  they  were 
themselves,  talking  shop,  and  therefore  interesting. 
Effie  and  Sam  preferred  them  in  the  kitchen,  telling 
their  slowly-moving  tales,  to  seeing  them  in  their 
smoke-room  mood,  imitating  badly  a  thing  not 
worth  the  imitating.  But,  in  either  room,  they 
helped  them  to  be  happy. 

Well  coated  they  would  go  each  night  from  the 
tobacco-laden  air  of  the  kitchen  down  the  road  to 
the  bridge  over  Marbeck  Force.  A  great  peace 
brooded  there.  Even  the  stream  ran  softly  now 
when  all  the  surface  water  of  its  gathering  ground 
was  frozen  hard. 

They  stood  there  on  the  bridge  while  the  moon 
rose  over  Hartle  Pike  and  scattered  silver  on  the 
snow.  Great  shadows  leaped  to  instant  birth  be- 
low the  Pike  whose  comely  top  was  one  black  silhou- 
ette against  the  brightened  sky,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  valley,  seen  by  day  with  an  almost  Alpine  harsh- 
ness, mellowed  in  the  moonlight  to  a  subtle  lumin- 
osity. Behind  them  were  the  lights  of  tlie  friendly 
Inn;  near  by  the  low  church  tower  saluted  God 
amongst  the  pines,  and  all  around  them  spread  the 
lustrous  radiance  of  the  moon-flushed  Dale. 

For  the  hundredth  time  he  restrained  his  impulse 


312  THE  MARBECK  INN 

to  repeat  his  words,  "  We'll  build  a  tabernacle 
here,"  and  Effie  read  his  thought. 

"  We're  making  the  good  beginning  here,"  she 
said.  "  We're  practising  and  I  think  we  grow."  « 

"  We  grow  in  happiness,"  he  said,  which  he 
thought  good  argument  for  staying  at  Marbeck. 

"  Yes.  We  grow  in  happiness.  We  shall  have 
outgrown  Marbeck  soon.  We  shall  have  grown  a 
sturdy  happiness  that  can  withstand  the  towns. 
It  might  withstand  Manchester  and  I  think  it  will. 
To  love,  to  work,  to  look  for  other  people's  strength 
and  not  for  other  people's  weaknesses:  that  is  to 
be  happy,  Sam.  And  happiness  counts  more  than 
all.  It  roots  and  then  it  spreads.  It  spreads.  In- 
fection isn't  only  of  disease,  infection  is  of  happi- 
ness and  youth.  There's  too  much  age,  too  many 
men  and  women  in  the  world  who  have  forgotten 
love.  We  have  to  build,  and  build  on  happiness." 

They  gazed  at  the  unguessed  future  through  the 
silent  night.  God  knows  that  there  was  work 
ahead  for  them  to  do ! 


THE  END 


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